


Lion(heart)

by 78424325



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-01-16 14:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 59,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18523510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/78424325/pseuds/78424325
Summary: Grahnye de Brún, 25, is broke.Eldigan Nordion, 26, is grieving.





	1. Her; Him

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for the sporadic new-posting, I got these random ideas suddenly. Of course this means updates can range between the very next day to the very next century, but I thought I'd rather post them before I forget everything later. 
> 
> ... As a side note, I'm so glad people do remember the Lionheart has a wife lol.

Grahnye de Brún pulls her car into the basement.

The car machine slowly dies down after grunting like an old heavy smoker, making her eyebrow twitch. She exhales, recalling the trip from her modest apartment to the office, costing her a great deal of anxiety when her brake nearly gave up. She was lucky—very lucky. The traffic came into a halt because of a red light. Taking advantage of her own rear window, she quickly applied the lipstick she did not have the chance to and made a quick, neat roll of her hair into a bun, securing it with her favorite red ribbon as always. The rush hour is a tough one in her area—cars honk at each other like knights of the old age are willing to unhorse one another on a jousting match. She has watched windows at the driver’s seat being pulled, revealing red-faced angry drivers shouting at each other or even mumbling some threats with a cuss word with a free middle-finger.

She has never done that. Either a virtue or a curse, usually it is the other way around—she is the one on the receiving end, mostly because of her weary old car and her careful driving. One time some people hesitated to yell at her thinking an old person was behind the wheel. But when she pulled down her window exactly to ask if she could be of any help to the staggering car beside her, the driver glared so angrily that she thought her heart leaped into her throat.

Since then, she never lets her window down at the street.

Patience is a virtue, people said. And perhaps that is true. She considers herself a cool-headed person. It takes a while until something, someone—manages to burn her fuse, and she is so used to swallowing her grieve back. Being angry is exhausting, she believes. Being angry takes a toll—and despite knowing it, often times she really hates herself for retorting to tears pretty easily once the anger piles up inside.

And that happened during that incident. Such explosive anger shocked her more than it angered her, and her mind raced quickly as she slowly pulled her window up again. Her hands trembled in shock and she reached for her go-to pastilles for some calming sense as the furious driver sped off, again earning yet another loud honk from cars behind her as she struggled rummaging through her purse. She inhaled and exhaled, counting in between like her therapist advised her. Slowly she started driving again, playing her favorite radio station which filled its airing time with oldies, if not jazz and classical music.

She is like that. She always is.

And now that she has pulled into the basement, she can take some deliberate time to recheck on herself. She pins a brooch on her cardigan, taking a box containing her glasses from her purse for a quick reach. She will need it for sure, when she is back to her typical cubicle, facing spreadsheets and actual papers upstairs. The car makes another heavy sigh when she finally kills off the machine, taking out her ignition key and returning it into her purse.

“Poor car. I’m sorry, that will be all for the morning…” she slowly pats the bonnet, now even feels hotter than usual every time she ends a trip. Various cars begin pouring into the basement, occupying lanes to her right and left. Some people come out of their cars, giving her a weird look. Blushing, she quickly removes her hand from the bonnet, slinging her purse into the crook of her elbow and makes a gesture of fixing her cardigan and the hem of her skirt.

She hears some people holding back laughter, and she sighs—again. Turning her head sharply, she puts up her professional face, smiling with tight lips. “Good morning.”

“Oh, morning!” they wave back at her. “Finally out of the hospital?”

“Yeah,” she replies, skeptically eying them. Her other hand clutches on her breakfast bread while the other is busy with a cup of coffee she picked up before driving here. It is frustrating, having to put up a guard each time people ask about her condition. She has long accepted that she is indeed frail, easily getting sick and exhausted when physical activities become more demanding. In the morning she has taken her cardigan with her because showering made her feel cold, something she is still adjusting after her release from the hospital two days ago.

Sparing a courteous nod she tails behind them as they rush to get to the elevator.

“Are you coming in or not?”

“D-don’t run…” she squeaks, nearly tripping on her shoes. Her voice is soft and they shake their heads, a gesture she is way, way too familiar with. The pity she never asked… alright, perhaps she did, but not like this. She would rather call it an understanding rather than pity. The irony is that she cannot even have either. Supposedly pity makes people to be kinder to her. And yet there they are, only shaking heads with the kind of stare like a shared consensus among themselves that understanding equals pity in the sense of… leaving her behind.

At first she did not notice. When other kids stopped playing with her after they realized she ran out of breath easily and how bruises remained longer on her skin compared to other kids, she figured all she had to be was becoming a stronger kid. So instead of shying away, she kept pushing, pushing, until her body gave up that she came down with a fever after following other kids to play under the rain.

Nobody helped her when she tumbled. Nobody seemed to realize that she put a considerable effort just to follow the other kids, just to be like them, just to do the things they did at ease. They commented how frail and useless she was instead of noting how she had run and played for hours with them, challenging her own limitations because she never went through such a mile before. And as confused as she was, she bit back her tongue when her parents picked her up from the school’s infirmary, sad and disappointed that she potentially harmed herself just because of some taunt.

“I just wanted to be free like everyone else,” she replied meekly at that time. Neither her father nor mother spoke on their ride back home, although that night they apologized when tucking her to bed.

At that time, she was even more confused because they apologized. But throughout the rest of her childhood they never made any comment when she came home bruised or nearly fainted like one time when she tried to pick a sport as a hobby.

Grahnye watches as the elevator closes before her. She still manages to catch muffled laughter from the inside, however, with someone mentioned they should be kinder to her because being kind to grandmothers is basic decency.

She blinks. She has heard ‘slowpoke’, ‘glass bones’, and even ‘conceited’ because some kids back then assumed the worst of her just for staying inside the classroom most of the time—but being called a grandmother like this is new.

She clutches her purse tighter than usual, somehow being reminded of the term ‘late Christmas cake’ with some of her own peers already putting down payment for their first house with a significant other. Perhaps there is indeed a first time for everything, the way she, for the first time as well, notices that there is no ring on her finger, and her phone is mostly quiet all the time.

Taking a good look at the mirrored wall inside the elevator, she slowly unknots her ribbon, letting her hair loose and setting the favorite red piece inside her purse. _Matronly,_ she thinks sadly, cupping her upper chest with her hand as she heaves. But she did not come there to look like a fresh vampire who just sucked a victim’s blood dry—she came to work and perhaps got the HRD to help her claim her health insurance after those hospital nights. But… ‘grandma’. Matronly—

Grahnye inhales again when her elevator reaches her floor. Her car needs beauty shop more than her.

* * *

 

He sits straight inside the spacious office room. His eyebrows twitch a little bit upon hearing the newest message he received on the phone. It is too early to be surprised like this, he contemplates, because the morning has changed from a one to a ten in a heartbeat. Watching his own reflection on the newly-starting monitor, somehow he wishes the computer broke.

He breathes slowly when the monitor finally comes to. It still has the same starting screen—that of a Windows 7 Ultimate with the same familiar photo and name as an icon. Without thinking anything else, his hand stretches forward, gently touching the icon with his fingertips.

He needs some moments of silence to compose himself before continuing.

Everything from last week slowly replays in his mind like an old, outdated projector playing some sinister scenes nobody even asked for. After dropping his sister to her school for some extracurricular activities, he rushed back to the hospital to check on his father.

It happened in what felt like a blaze to him. A week ago nurses informed him that his father, hospitalized in a VIP section of the hospital, was showing signs of recovery after undergoing the best care and treatment they could try. If everything went well as planned, they were about to take off the oxygen mask his father had on him after some breathing trouble in the last few days within said week. But right when he was about to softly knock into the hospital room, a certain lamp lighted in the corridor.

It flashed in blue.

He barely had the chance to pocket his keys and phone when nurses rushed into the hospital room he intended to visit. Shortly after a standby doctor followed suit, running like trying to win an impossible race that her stethoscope was still dangling on her neck instead of being fixed on her ears.

His stomach churned. That couldn’t be, he thought at that time. The rooms were close to each other, so it could be… something else. Someone else. And blue—respiration and heart which stop working.

He wished he did not need to know those things. Sadly he knew, after driving his father personally a couple of times for all the check-ups, controls, and eventually loaded him into the room himself. He had seen the light flashed and blinked in various colors, and each time it happened, it was someone else. He had spent some time outside when nurses and doctors performed checks on his ailing father, exchanging words with nearby staffers rather than having to hear his father’s heavy breathing as they tested him. Rather than having to look into his sister’s eyes each time she was there with him when the checks occurred—because he knew what she asked despite not voicing it loud.

“Is Papa going to make it, Eldie?”

His answer grew weaker and more uncertain as the days passed by. And each time he got there, his father always asked how their company fared, and he would be forced to steer the conversation into that formal, boss and vice-boss talk. There were days when he felt like tugging on his father so hard, to scream at him demanding some moments of public display of weakness instead of coughing while talking to him with spreadsheet in hand and a calculator in another. He wanted to hear his father giving up—not because it would give him sadistic pleasure, but to finally see the human, the feeble man he was. Two nights before that fateful day his father had another different spreadsheet and sealed envelopes in his hands, which he retrieved from the drawer near the bed. His voice staggered and weak that he nearly lost his composure to truly yell at the older man to take it easy because— _darn it,_ he was not going anywhere, and he could not care less if the company went down in flames if it meant the older man’s recovery.

He used to tease his father by comparing him to a lion—tough and unyielding, stern in public but loving in private the way the older man raised him. He demanded formal and polished manner when they were out in public, but in-person, the lion threw his dignified, authoritative demeanor miles away to pamper him. The older lion sent him to the best school and shaped him into a man he thought befitting his idea of a paragon knight—strong, enduring, with sharp mind but possessing a gentle heart. One time after finishing his piano lesson, his father was back with a little girl in his hand—eyes averted from his as the older lion mumbled, in a rather deferring manner compared to the unyielding mastery he had displayed so far—the little girl was called Lachesis, and she was to live there with them as his sister.

He had no sister. At least these years he believed he did not.

But like the ideal knight that he was, he kept his mouth shut, half feeling anxious and another half glad to have a companion he never had. The big house started to feel emptier the older he got, and Lachesis stuck with him like no other ever since.

And that moment in the hospital, he had expected similar demeanor from his father—akin to that unusually quiet afternoon when he brought back Lachesis home. Instead, he had to deal with something else—assets. Assets in envelopes the older lion had compiled, casually handing it to him.

“What are these?” he had asked, voice slightly louder than usual.

“My fortune,” his father replied in the dignified manner mirroring himself.

“No,” he _glared_ at the older man, suddenly wanting to crumple all those paper stacks in his grip. “We will sort this out and you will rest and I—I shall have none of it.”

“Do not fret, Eldigan. You are my son—my eldest child too,” the older lion glared back. “I have prepared them for a while now. It is all for you to manage now. You are the new Lionheart.”

“I do not understand,” his voice croaked and weak instead of the roar he wished for a moment ago.

“My will. Do you now?”

“Papa!”

“Come here, Eldie,” the older lion whispered, reaching for him. “Listen—I’m not getting any better. Not even if you were to break this drawer clean with your bare hands. I only did what is necessary there, my son. For our family, you, and then Lachesis. Promise me you will treasure her—the thought of being unable to treasure her late mother alone is enough to keep me awake at night.”

“Papa…”

“Mister Nordion?”

He gasps softly. He must have whispered the name unknowingly, with his fingertips still brushing against the monitor. Everything was so dark and bleak after that—with him making various, repeated phone calls here and there to arrange the older lion’s funeral because his half-sister had been too distraught for anything else.

So he let her be, processing the grief in her own terms as she saw fitting. He was close to point out that her grades were falling, but seeing the dark circles under her eyes every morning she joined him for breakfast, he kept his mouth shut. He was the lion now, the eldest, all his father’s pride and joy. And he decided to act like that, even if simply to treasure his father’s fondest memory of him.

“Yes?”

A face peeks in. He recognizes the newcomer as one of the triplets his father hired years ago, and now directly working under him. To his best friends, he dubs the triplets as the fixer because back then they were tasked with almost everything—running his father’s sheets, calculation—and even acting as Lachesis’ driver and guards when needed.

“Sorry for being a bother this early, Mister N,” says the brown-haired man which he then recognizes as Alva, the oldest of the triplets. Alva runs his thumb over his chin, anxiously eying him. “We received a call from the law firm. You know, regarding…”

He sighs.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Alva mutters sympathetically, gently placing his coffee on the desk. “If you are not ready to talk to lawyers, I understand. I’ll reject them on behalf of you.”

He stares at the screen. He has not even logged on; the icon—the photo of his father is still there. He knows the password. Before dying the old lion has been so detailed in all his letters and will as if knowing his absence will strike his family like a vicious thunder. Perhaps that is why the letters specifically cited certain matters only he could attend to, and not Lachesis. Or perhaps because he just doted on the girl, like him. Perhaps because Lachesis was only eighteen and needing to concentrate on university for the upcoming academic year. Perhaps because…

 _What an absolute honor to be trusted,_ he clenches his fist. His eyes travel on the keyboard again. Normally it takes only seconds for him to input the password. He has done that many times even before the late lion got to detail everything in his letters. Closing his eyes, he recalls all the whims which his father would call him there for—still fresh in his mind how the old lion would panic over some click bait news and targeted ads, thinking they were being spied on. Still fresh in his mind how his late father watching on Eve as their head technician drained all the malwares and viruses out of the computer. Still fresh in his mind how he could not resist a chuckle when his father straight-up asked if Eve exorcised his computer that way. Still fresh in his mind as well when he half-scolded his father not to deliberately click on everything or be aware of deceptive sites.

 _What an absolute honor to be trusted…_ his fingers stop over the keyboard, with the sinking feeling in his chest that—yes, the old lion truly was gone now. That he got to sit there because the former occupant was gone, leaving him to head their company, to face their partners and rivals, to use this blasted computer alone.

Suddenly he misses his father’s calls. Clenching his fist once again he waits for the typical familiar voice trying hard to speak in a dignified manner although the eyes would give him a childish wary look—“Eldie, why did this one say single ladies in the area want to talk to me?”

And he would shake his head, gently putting down the paper he was concentrating on before crossing the connecting door from his own office room to reach for his father’s presidential suit. And he would try not to laugh when his father insisted he parted ways with his exes peacefully, that he was aware romance would be too much to handle at that age and… wealth.

“It can’t be me,” his father said one time after he tried to tell him for the hundredth time that—no, there was no such a thing as single ladies trying to turn him into a babe-magnet. “It has to be you.”

And again he would sullenly retire to his own office room because his father asked if he had found someone yet. He tried telling him that he had his best friends, anyway—Quan Claus and Sigurd Chalphy, promising stars in their own jobs and treasured people in their own family. And the old lion would laugh boisterously, making him to bend so the former could reach his mane to ruffle it.

“You talked like a boy. Time to think like a man.”

He purposefully did not come inside when his father complained about random poker invitations next.

He ponders one more time, trying to bring his fingers over the keyboard, reciting the familiar password he has known since forever. Only he knows the password besides the old lion—despite Lachesis’ familiar presence in the office sometimes, she never knows, and neither do the triplets despite being his father’s closest aides for the time being.

_What an absolute honor to be trusted…_

He sighs. Again.

_And an absolute dread to be._

“I’ll leave you alone if it makes you feel better,” Alva speaks after hesitatingly runs his hand over his back, rubbing it trying to give him some sense of solace he desperately needs. He tried. He tried evaporating it somewhere else—the gym where he could take advantage of the nice sandbags with Sigurd because his best friend is also a proficient kickboxer like him, or even to the fencing arena with Quan, who holds the same membership like his on some specific HEMA school near the law firm; he, trained in long sword, versus Quan, a more than capable polefighter.

And he failed still.

“No. Do not go,” he barks when Alva begins to leave. “I mean…”

“I’m just a call away, Mister N,” he says knowingly. “For anything. Really, anything. The late boss treated me and my brothers like family.”

“I hope I keep the tradition going,” he tries to lighten the air around him.

“I’m sure you will,” Alva returns the line in a comforting, kind manner before closing the doors.

 _It is just typing a password,_ he thinks again. Bringing down his fingers once again, the smiling icon that is his father’s photo invades his mind, forcing him to relish the happier days where that was what he would find every time he got to see the late lion, instead of tubes, bottled medicines, prescribed meal menu and lastly some ugly monitor doing its ugly things until the line fell flat.

_“One, one-thousand. Two, one-thousand. Three—Lord God, he is gone so fast.”_

_“… Are you kidding me?”_

_“I am sorry, but…”_

_“Then I’ll do it myself—breathe, Papa, in the name of our ancestor!”_

_“Stop it, Eldie!”_

_“Step aside, Lachesis!”_

_“Eldie!”_

_“Step aside I said!”_

_“Eldie, you cannot hit a nurse!”_

_“Then they should bring back Papa instead of blabbering all these thousand-nonsense!”_

_“Eldie! Eldie, stop, I’m begging you…”_

He recalls weakly dropping the defibrillator, with Lachesis quickly jumped over him, tackling him in a tight hug, messily sobbing into his chest. He recalls his visiting best friends’ deathly worried expressions which followed shortly after—Sigurd pulling him back while Quan putting some muscles, tightly griping on his shoulder, patting his cheeks desperately trying to make him process what just happened. He recalls Lachesis whispering that the old lion is gone—gone, gone, gone—not on a business trip as always, nor to visit and fool around with her mother either. And only when the bed was emptied with his best friends gently ushering Lachesis outside that he hammered his fists against the floor, sobbing.

That might be the last time they saw him completely losing his composure like that. His best friends checked up on him every day after that, and he found his responses to be flat—flat like the crepes Lachesis brought home for him, flat like the clothing iron their domestic worker pressed on their clean laundry. Flat like his expression, like the sewer rat he accidentally smashed with his car for driving with clouded mind. Flat like how his nose felt after bumping into a wall drunk.

 _It’s just a darn password,_ he thinks again.

But the password—the password—akin to what the late lion whispered in his deathbed—

_myprideeldie_

He sighs, taking one last good look at the monitor. “Alva, we need a new computer for this room,” he says flatly. “And we’ll just need to take the hard disk drive out and run it separately. Or transfer everything to the new computer—I trust Eve can do that.”

“I’m sure he can, but…”

“And I’ll get back with the law firm. But before this, I…” sighing, he cups his face, grabbing his keys once again. “… I need a drink.”

“Understood,” Alva mumbles, warily eying him when the new boss bumps against the door. Two days ago the old lion left the world. Two days ago the new boss told his sister that she could do everything she pleased as long as it wasn’t foolish or dangerous—name something, he’d just get it for her, no question asked. He told her to cry again and again, to barge into his room if necessary, to interrupt him working—everything, everything to make her feel better.

The new lion never gave himself a chance to grieve.

* * *

 

She clicks her tongue, shooting murderous look at the air conditioner swinging chilling breeze at the left corner above her head. How many times does she need to tell everyone that constant exposure to the unforgiving, cold, man-made, ozone-corrupting Freon machine like this withers her away like the Earth’s violated atmosphere? Oh, right—they never listened. It is sure one of her whims again—the sunlight is too strong, the chilly air is too cold… “Next time just say the water is too watery,” one of them rolls their eyes. “I mean, you probably need to try harder.”

She did. Which is why she never turned down piling paperwork and assignments meant for her. Which is why she will always answer work-related emails whenever she sees one, regardless of what time and whether it came on a Saturday. She never turned down an overtime. And exactly because she wanted to show that she is more than a chaining ball to everyone’s ankles that the last project and tender magnificently landed her on one of the hospital beds, getting one-punched by typhoid fever.

Eying everyone else like a coyote, she grabs a nearby remote control, slowly adjusting the temperature. Muffling her sneezing, she tightens her cardigan, downing the packed herbal tea she brewed for herself at the office’s pantry, smirking a little bit as she turns back her attention on her computer. A calculator is there with a piece of paper—always, because she always double-checks. Minute by minute ticks with her craning her neck here and there, warily gauging everyone’s expression to see if a disgruntled soul will raise an objection out of being deprived of the honor that is freezing to death out of North Pole-level cold air conditioner.

There is not.

Everyone keeps their zombie-face looks, concentrating on their monitor like her. Nobody bats an eye. Perhaps mornings are too precious to be spent on initiating civil war with the office mate sitting closest to you—there is afternoon with that, especially after everyone sneaks into the pantry for a second cup of coffee with the boss dumping extra task unannounced.

She breathes relief, slowly tugging off her cardigan to drape over her chair. Humming softly, her fingers make a simple ballet over the calculator while her pen dances on the paper. In a short time—at least faster compared to other people, anyway—she has finished the spreadsheet. Taking her glasses off to rub her eyes and nose bridge, she smiles, feeling a little bit of solace. Her work is her pride. At least despite being the alleged fashion disaster that she is, there is no problem with her work so far, so…

“Why the hell is it so freaking hot here?!”

She cocks her head to look around. One of her coworkers—the same person who left her at the elevator is making a dramatic entry after returning from the bathroom. Ignoring his whims, she puts back her glasses, facing her monitor. Her watch says it is already twelve, and just a little bit more she will have finished the morning workload, faster compared to her other coworkers.

She makes a distinctive surprised sound when a hand flies to her side, snatching the remote control she forgot to put back. “Oh, it’s you. Should have thought,” said coworker hisses as he grabs the small device back, adjusting the temperature back, back, back…

She begins to frown. That is lower than the original setting, and she shakes her head, clicking her tongue once again. If Elliot Heirhein wants to be petty, then she is not interested in interrupting him from making a fool of himself. “I’m off for lunch,” she gets up from her chair, turning off her monitor before grabbing her purse. Shivering a little because the cold air conditioning breeze pricks into her bones, her feet staggers again when she gets out from the cubicle. “Does anyone want anything?”

Her doctor advised her to lay low for at least three days more, but…

“Oh, so previously you stole the remote and now finishing early.”

She rolls her eyes. “Elliot, I’m not even stealing and yes, I finished early.”

“I got scolded by Grandma,” he fumes. “Well, perhaps you should stop subjecting other people into the misery you created for the sake of your convenience. You already have that cardigan.”

“My clothes are not your concern,” she keeps walking without deigning him a proper reply. Her low-heeled strap-flats make tame sounds across the corridors. The walk to the elevator is short, and some of the late lunch-goers like her nod when they pass by each other. Still, the ride down there is silent, and she cannot help but feeling a bit sour when people go in groups or pairs before dispersing to nearby eateries around the office she works at. She watches her cardigan Elliot pointed out prior. Spring brings warmer climate, something better than the choking cold winter. But she just recovered from a sickness, and the air around her still feels a little bit too much to handle. Taking the cardigan off to grant herself some sense of… normalcy, she brings her hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

Her head feels swinging a little bit.

 _Damn this body,_ she thinks, opening her umbrella. Passing through an ocean of people around her, she thinks she catches a glimpse of Elliot who rushes outside to grab a lunch.

“Stuck-up,” she hears a couple of people crowding around Elliot mumbling.

“Perhaps she thinks herself as a princess,” Elliot snickers. “Anything for Grandma.”

She wonders how many umbrella swings it will take before they have to call the cops on her out of attempted murder, with Elliot bleeding profusely, getting concussion as he lies still on the ground. Exhaling, she throws her hair behind her shoulders.


	2. You Need Help

He folds his arms impatiently. The elevator ride should only take some meager minutes until he gets to land himself on the floor he is supposed to visit. The building interior is elegant, and despite the soft fragrant smell from the spray they are using for the elevator, nothing can make him stop tapping his foot impatiently against the floor. His watch, an elegant Akibros XXIV Alligator with a brown leather strap, tells him it is around ten.

He truly has no intention to go back to his office before lunch time. If anything, he deliberately picked the time just so he can find something to eat… something calming later on, perhaps. His stomach makes a faint sound, prompting him to purse his lips into a wry smile.

Right when he wants to forget, his body there just needs to be a traitor by reminding him that he had nothing to eat in the morning. He would want to argue because he considered the Jack Daniels shots he took at night as a meal. He would want to keep arguing that he was not truly left without food because he had taken two more shots of said whiskey in the morning—three and probably five if Lachesis did not catch him sitting alone in their living room with the television on, with something playing he did not even know what anymore.

Lachesis saw the nearly-empty bottle and took it away from him without saying anything.

He sighs again. Eldigan Nordion, Papa’s pride, a lion in his full right and might at the ripe age of twenty—

… Hold on, how old is he again?

He weakly slams his fist against the elevator. His mind is killing him with all the repressed grieves that for a moment he could not even recall if he already had his birthday or not. Alright, twenty-six; let’s just settle there without details. He does not want to rekindle the number, anyway—thinking of his own birthday will force him to think about the departed lion. It is his father; he cannot escape.

Cannot escape…

Eldigan Nordion, Papa’s pride, a lion in his full right and might at twenty-six silently disappointed the sister he is supposed to care for by flirting closely enough with alcoholism.

The elevator stops with a simple _ding!_ sound.

Suddenly he feels so small. He feels so small, intimidated, insignificant, inadequate—akin to those old days when he stepped into his first piano lesson, the first day when he stepped into the gym to begin training in kickboxing, the first day when he started his school. But during those first moments Papa would always be there, holding his hand in his in that familiar unchanging manner—strong and tough as if transferring everything that he was to him, closing the door behind him with a simple message…

_“Do not be afraid, Eldie.”_

He repeats the magic words now, as a grown man. Again, at the ripe age of twenty-six, Eldigan Nordion, too angry to be angry and too sad to bawl his eyes out, Papa’s pride, nearly descends into alcoholism and wants to jump out of this building for being more scared than a scaredy cat.

Perhaps the only way to stop being afraid is just by keep doing it until one cannot feel anything anymore.

“Do not be afraid, Eldie,” he whispers to himself. He was seven when Papa took him for the piano lesson; seven was Lachesis too when Papa enrolled her for the violin class. He was six when Papa took him for his first class of kickboxing. Lachesis was six when Papa introduced her to HEMA swords, after he and Quan chilled in his house, tired but proud, winning their first medals in swordsmanship competition. They went to school together the next morning, boys age fourteen fearless and proud.

But grief is not an opponent in flesh and blood he can hammer with a hook knee kick.

“I’m sorry, are you getting out or not?”

He startles a little. A woman in neat tailored suit looks at him, half-annoyed because he has been doing nothing but folding his arms, tapping his foot, exhaling and inhaling too many times to remember. He mumbles a quick apology to her, stepping outside, throwing his sling bag across his shoulder. _This feels like a torment,_ he thinks again. He takes a considerable distance from the woman as she enters the elevator as if trying to communicate that—no, she has nothing to be afraid of him; he is not a creep.

 _I cannot do this,_ his mind races again. Perhaps he forgot to polish his oxfords at home. Is this shirt even ironed at all? Maybe he buttoned everything messily. What color is his vest again? Did he roll the sleeves? Is he wearing a tie? Is his belt unbuckled? Oh, dear Lord—that woman probably thought he was grade-A level creepy. His pants are zipped, right?

_“Do not be afraid, Eldie.”_

He touches his collar.

_“Do not be afraid, Eldie.”_

His fingers travel to feel the buttons under; not sure if he is happy or a bit disappointed since… his anxiety is unfounded because his buttons are in order.

_“Do not be afraid, Eldie…”_

Has Lachesis truly woken up now? In the morning Lachesis asked if he could call the school for her after he gently peeled his grief-stricken sister off the bathroom floor—messily sobbing and bawling without answering any call that he truly, literally had to kick the door open to check on her. Drowning her into his protective chest Lachesis incoherently talked about how it felt like a loose trigger because Papa’s last gift for her—an expensive eau de toilette from Miletos—accidentally fell on her when she was about to brush her teeth. She had asked him to not come to work today. And he reasoned exactly because it was Monday that he had to get through what Papa left behind to smooth things out.

Lachesis whimpered. And he left after fixing her blanket, kissing her forehead, promising to call her school saying she was sick, promising to be her partner-in-crime today. And he could not answer when Lachesis blatantly pointed out how he grew a beard, how he looked like a stranded person, and that he should eat something—with this something had better be not whiskey.

He only said he would shave, which he did.

_“Do not be afraid, Eldie.”_

Perhaps it is better if he would be the one having a breakdown like Lachesis. At least something would pour out that way, free from its confinement that he got to be free as well. He normally does not giddily swear at people, but when another driver cut his lane on the way to the law firm, he rolled down his window like millions out there, swore like a roaring lion that the other driver had to hit the brake because of how scared he made him. And he hated to admit it felt good. It would even be better if this driver was stubborn enough and chose to pick a fight with him instead. Lachesis said he could not hit a nurse. Lachesis did not say he could not hit other car-drivers. Papa would not imagine he could lose his cool so easily like that—it was against his upbringing, but Papa did not say anything about dying, either.

_“Do not be afraid, Eldie.”_

_I am, Papa,_ he sighs, making a quick detour to the men’s bathroom near the elevator only gets to be disappointed. His clothes are tidy. There is nothing wrong with his hair. And being freshly-shaven makes him look so much better, enhancing his beauty even more. If he is to pick something worth-cheering for, his belt is not unbuckled and his pants are neatly zipped.

He splashes some water over his face and quickly wipes it off with his blood-red handkerchief. Checking the supposed address once again, he steers his reluctant paces to the law firm section of the building.

The automatic doors part themselves the moment he approaches. “Good morning. Can I help you?” a receptionist welcomes him. Her smile is professional and trained, and he finds himself unable not to smile back. He has that trained polite look under his belt too.

“Good morning, Miss. I’m Eldigan…” his voice withdraws itself as if solidly understanding how hard it is for him to push it out of his throat. The receptionist is still waiting, and he inhales again. “… Nordion.” His surname came out faintly, fainter than his previous presentation to her. The receptionist startles a little upon hearing the name, and he tries so, so hard to keep a straight face when she spares a kind sympathetic look. “And I’m here for the lawyer who is supposed to take care of…”

_I’m afraid, Papa._

“… The inheritance, Sir. I understand,” the receptionist smiles kindly, finishing his sentence.

_No, you don’t._

“Come this way, please?”

Usually receptionists will just point out what room to go, perhaps with a brief explanation of what to expect once arrived. But she ushers him personally, either being sympathetic because they just buried Papa on Saturday and suddenly the clock ticks again because this is Monday. He wants to growl or whatever it is the leonine equivalent for that. Well, lions growl. But do they, when they are sad?

The receptionist seats him on a comfortable sofa. “Tea or coffee?”

 _Death._ “Whiskey.”

“I’m… sorry?”

“I mean—coffee.”

The receptionist nods gently. “My deepest condolences, Sir.”

Papa and Mama said to never hit a lady. He wishes he could. And then to roll back time to return everything to normal, so this well-meaning receptionist would not suffer anything.

He smiles wryly when the coffee is brought before him. There is a reason why he goes there instead of having the lawyer meeting him in his office, anyway—so he can escape. He can cite a lunch to get himself something nice, and probably drink a little bit more now that Lachesis is not here with him. And perhaps if he returns with a bunch of greasy, unhealthy chips to the office, people will leave him alone the way all this sadness will shut up. Perhaps he should try getting a cake? Sweets are filling, with that effect of akin to being bludgeoned in the solar plexus. The idea itself does not sound so bad for him, either way—Papa could not breathe, and it wasn’t due to getting bludgeoned in the solar plexus. But what kind of a heartless monster who brings cake to the office after burying his father two days ago?

The wait is killing him, but his elegant watch says it’s barely a minute since the coffee arrived.

“Lachesis?” he decided to do the only thing he would always do whenever his mind was full—being with the half-sister, the loyal companion who never disappointed since the day she entered the household. When he lost a match or spar she would be there, slapping a band-aid fussing him to chin up because her “super duper ultra cool brother” is a mighty, unyielding warrior. When Sigurd knocked him out and Quan’s lance sent him flying across the training ground, Lachesis consoled him, saying that she still thought of him as the best, regardless, and Quan’s favorite brown vest sucked while Sigurd’s side-sweep fringes reminded her of a horse’s mane. When he, with restrained chuckles, reminded Lachesis that those two were his best friends still, Lachesis reminded him that they kicked his ass.

Lachesis did not pick up in a heartbeat, but he breathes relief when she eventually does, with a yawn. The princess was just asleep then. “Huh… Eldie?”

“Right. It’s me, Sissi,” he mutters on the phone. “Still sleeping?”

“Not until you called,” she replies. “Need something?”

“No. Just checking up on you.”

There is silence from the other side until she speaks again. “… You always do that.”

“What, peaches?”

“Checking up on people. What are you, antivirus trial?”

The corner of his mouth twitches and he is really, really glad he could. “A concerned _older_ brother.”

“Then I’m a concerned sister. Did you eat anything?”

The twitch disappears in a heartbeat. “Yeah. Coffee.”

“Eldie…”

“It’s near lunch. I’ll eat something,” he quickly retorts. “Perhaps you can wake up too, it’s nearly twelve.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Then eat in bed.”

“Good idea,” Lachesis yawns again. “Eldie?”

“What, Sissi?”

“Eat something. I’m serious.”

“Alright, I promise,” he sighs, ending the call. His face changes color at an instant when he realizes he is no longer alone in that sofa, but otherwise—“Good Lord. You shaved a good ten years off my life,” he sighs louder, slumping on the seat now that a familiar face kindly smiles at him. He recognizes her—her pink hair is neatly rolled like a bagel—he makes a mental note to eat, seriously this time—nicely secured at her nape with a yellow hairpin… hair tie… _whatever,_ he contemplates then. The lady makes a quick, simple gesture to smoothen her purple dress before sitting down facing him, her kind sympathetic smile does not at all change as she lays a thick file folder before him.

“Hello, Eldigan,” with the same familiar voice she greets him, gently opening the folder to reveal many other papers kept inside as if not wanting to startle him. “Let’s start with your pace.”

“Why are you here, Little Sigurd?” he flashes a sad smile, not sure if this is a blessing or a curse—Sigurd’s younger sister, Ethlyn, turns out to be the one who handles his documents. It is relieving to see someone familiar there, someone who actually experienced everything with him. She was there with his best friends, arms locking around Lachesis’ waist when he had to stop lending his chest for her because they needed him as one of the pallbearers. Ethlyn’s hand tightly clasped over Lachesis’ when he delivered a speech, feeling like the ground under him was about to break because they gave him the honor of being the first to spare the last goodbye before they got to close the lid. On Sunday, Ethlyn took Lachesis for a cake spree in town while Sigurd and Quan did not leave his side the entire day.

“I asked them to let me take care of you,” Ethlyn simply chuckles. “So here I am.”

“You went through a mile for that,” he replies wryly. “I’m a pathetic one hell of an ass to handle.”

Ethlyn laughs, gently rubs his hand from over the coffee table. “You usually don’t speak like that, Eldie. Where did those calm, composed courtly lines go?”

He does not reply. And Ethlyn brushes her hand against his understandingly.

“Quan shares your grief.”

“I forgot you work for him.”

“I’m his junior here but it’s not like he is my supervisor or anything,” Ethlyn rolls her eyes. “And lest you forget, he is in a different division. I do not date people who share the same work room with me.”

“But the same building, same field, same taste in music, same…”

Ethlyn stomps on his foot and he stops, amused.

“Thanks, Little Sigurd, I need that.”

“It is Miss Ethlyn Chalphy, Esquire, thank you very much,” she huffs, but smiles back because he did. “So, this is the summary, Eldie—Papa Nordion left behind a grand sum, not only personally for you or Lachesis, but your family business as well,” she points at one of the papers inside her folder. “Slowly we’ll get everything needed to hand over those assets to you, and reclaim everything that is in your name. However, there are several charity funds your father involved in and would need you to keep. The way you manage them all including the amount you will give is up to you.”

“Hold on,” his voice trembles a little. “I truly am the head of the family now.”

“Yeah,” Ethlyn pats his shoulder. “Congratulations?”

“Does not make me feel better somehow,” he confesses. “So the house is mine too I presume?”

“… Not just the house, Eldie,” Ethlyn lowers her head, signaling him to come closer. She whispers, and he bulges his eyes as she lays everything one by one—the family fund, Lachesis’ college money Papa had set up prior, the office’s assets, the business, the—

He gasps. And Ethlyn nods understandingly—again. “It’s like saying almost every penny in my family is at my disposal including Lachesis’ school fund and personal money until she turns twenty-one,” he repeats.

“That’s the simplified version—the lite version is that you are swimming in money,” Ethlyn responds. “If that makes you feel better? We are talking more than six digits here, Eldie.”

He grunts.

“I think you should hire an independent curator or planner to start distributing everything the way Papa N would have wanted you to in the will,” Ethlyn speaks gentler this time. “That way you can hope for an objective assessment because that person is not a part of any firm or business. And even after, you still have moneybags weighing down your pants. You will be alright. Lachesis will be alright.”

“Are you suggesting everything will be alright because I can buy private jets on a whim now?”

“Eldie, you know that is not what I meant…”

“Well, I know your father is alive and well, Ethlyn!”

“Eldie…”

“Nice to meet you today, Miss Chalphy,” he raises a hand, stopping Ethlyn right away. He does not look back when Ethlyn mutters something—something which he has stopped comprehending at this point. Ethlyn is still calling for him, apologizing for causing the misunderstanding but everything around him swirls and sways—the ground breaks under him again, and he bumps against the elevator when it comes. Slumping on the floor taking the space for himself, he darts a glance at his watch.

Twelve-thirty.

He is a hungry lion ready to assault a restaurant before that hunger fails to eclipse his sorrowful anger.

* * *

 

She closes her umbrella upon arriving at the certain building. “Stupid door,” she mutters. Yielding, she finally accepted the fact that she nearly bumps face-first against the glass door or that several diners who queue behind her not-so-secretly laughed at her. She clutches her cardigan again, tighter this time. There has to be a way to let out that displeasure without having to lash at these people. She pushes the glass door again, smiling wryly because it will not budge. _I am twenty-five, darn it, not seventy-five,_ she screams in silence, cursing her fragility and nonexistent muscles for the tenth time of the day. Progress, she thinks again, suddenly feeling so keen to shatter this stupid door with some random adult fist-sized sturdy rock lying nearby. Previously it would be twenty times, and no matter how much she resents it, she is still like this, anyway, so she decides to make peace with herself.

“Let me do that for you,” a man’s voice nearly startles her from behind. She turns around, facing a young man appearing like one of those young executives in the area. He takes a good look at her, smiling a little. “Oh. I thought it was an old woman needing help. Apparently a siren.”

If her jaw could literally drop to the ground, it might be deeper than the Mariana trench now. Old woman—again? Cursed cardigan, perhaps this is the sign to stop that sudden shopping impulse just because something is on discount. Well, her car did not say anything about needing a repair. Heck, she did not even plan on being sick, but apparently we cannot have everything in the world just like that.

“S-siren? No, I’m Grahnye…” she responds awkwardly, too blank to think of anything else. Just then she quickly clams her mouth shut. What did those tips say about not engaging a stranger—a _male_ stranger? And now she just blurted out her name like that.

“Oh. I’ve never heard of a bewitching creature called Grahnye before. Are you a librarian or something?”

 _Good God,_ she thinks, thrown in between wanting to bludgeon him first and then her second—or vice-versa. And… librarian? She quickly darts a glance against the stupid glass door again. Her wavy long brown hair nicely frames her face. There is nothing stuck in her face so far, though—with the exception being her cat eyes-shaped glasses which she forgot to take off. But this is just a simple lunch trip, and she will return to her building shortly after, back to the now colder-than-ever cubicle thanks to Elliot’s weird kink called dying of hypothermia by air conditioning. Back to her loyal calculator and monitor she just wiped clean because God knows how that little bastard caught so much dirt during her absence when she was still hospitalized. So previously she is an old woman, and now a librarian… interesting. She wonders how many percent of the male population who not-so-secretly harbor a thing or two towards bespectacled ladies who dress rather conservatively. This cardigan is definitely cursed.

“No? I’m probably older than you, even.”

“Really? I thought you were a high-schooler. Then perhaps we need to get to know each other.”

“High-schooler? Ew, you are gross. No, thank you,” with her head held high she quickly steps inside, catching the man from prior fuming, calling her a stuck-up ungrateful bitch. Typical, she ponders with a tight smile. If a man strikes a conversation to her, either he is delusional, mistaking her for someone else, or a creep. And the young executive from prior just hit all the trifecta perfectly—amazing.

She walks up to the counter, smiling at the purple-haired woman who curves her lips upon seeing her. “I’m so glad to see you again! Where have you been?”

“Hi, Deirdre. I got hospitalized for nearly a week because of typhoid fever,” she smiles at the purple-haired woman who waits behind the counter. It is impossible not to like Deirdre—the woman is softspoken—even more than she is—and timid, awakening the protective older sister instinct in her. Deirdre throws her murder-worthy thick flow-ey purple hair she weaved into a long braid behind her back, placing a tray on the counter.

Fixing the apron bearing the restaurant’s logo behind her waist, the beautiful woman returns her attention on Grahnye. “Really? God, that sounds terrible. Are you feeling better now?”

“I’m recovering, sure,” Grahnye replies, eying the neon-lighted menu list behind Deirdre. “It’s just—you know, my body and everything. Other people got released in around two or three days, but it’s me, so…”

Deirdre shoots her a sympathetic look. “It’s alright. We are all a little different, Grahnye.”

“You are literally the first nice person to speak nicely to me,” she sniffles a little. “I—I’ll just have that vegetarian burger and fries, please. The doctor said I need to be gentle with my intestines for a while.”

It does not take long for Deirdre to get what she needs. The woman smiles, putting a glass of healthy ginger ale on the tray besides the plain water she has asked, patting her hand from across the counter. “On the house,” she whispers. “I love your cardigan! Get well soon, alright?”

She nearly chokes on her own sobs if Deirdre’s eyes are not still fixated on her. Mumbling a heartfelt gratitude, she drags the tray off the counter, stepping aside to see if there is a vacant seat for her to settle down and eat her lunch. Her friendship with her started with an unlikely meeting—she had taken refuge from the vicious pouring rain, sneezing and coughing like a disgruntled giraffe—

… That is perhaps not the best metaphor to come up with, but she cannot find something more fitting, regardless. It was still early in the morning; her car broke the night prior and she did not want to risk everything by driving it to her building. Unexpected to her, however, another young woman rushed to stand beside her, all coughing and sneezing as she closed her water-soaked umbrella beside her. At first it felt so unfair for thinking she had a supposed friend with similar problem. But when the other young woman accidentally captured her eyes with hers, suddenly smile and laughter broke between them, ended with the other woman shyly opening the door for her to come in.

“I work here,” she stated simply at that time. “Perhaps you want to come inside to warm yourself?”

That very day she learned that the place made kick-ass ginger ale with equally-nice comfort foods, and the other woman was called Deirdre Heim and she possessed the softest, most magnificent flowing wavy hair she ever witnessed in a person so far. She finds herself easily coming back because the place gives that calming feeling as if time stops ticking inside, allowing customers to feel homey and relaxed. It did not take long either for her and Deirdre to exchange numbers. In Deirdre, she finds similarities—the other woman is not only softspoken—she seems to appreciate simpler delights in life, compared to her fast-paced surroundings with many ambitious, robotic people around. Deirdre never makes her feel like she has to force herself on a marathon just to be able to be like everyone else. Deirdre likes the color purple and praises her hair. Most importantly, Deirdre knows what it feels to be an anxious outsider.

“I just moved here from Verdane,” she confessed one day. “And I have an ailing grandmother with me. How about you?”

At that time she sheepishly confessed back that she just managed to secure a tiny but cozy apartment in this part of southern Agustria after more than two decades living with her parents in the nice mom-and-pop small farm in the outskirts of Leonster. When she braced herself for mockery or backhanded compliments, Deirdre beamed at her, telling her how lucky she ought to be because she liked animals, and being somewhere lush like the grassy, hilly Leonster sounded awesome. It did not take long for her to invite Deirdre to eat dinner with her, and they sprawled on her couch watching a romantic comedy while taking turn to agree with each other that sitting on a rooftop to stargaze and running barefoot freely over the grass should be the new definition of happiness, dictionary-wise.

Waving at Deirdre to nod at her with a smile, she cranes her neck left and right. The pleasant café seems to be pretty tightly-packed and everyone seems to be having a companion or two to spend lunch with. With a quick glance, the corner of her eyes catches the man from prior finishes his order from the other counter and now begins to walk to her direction carrying his own tray.

She bites her lips. No way she is going to be involved with him for the second time of the day. If anything, she needs to finish her lunch quickly to return to her building soon, and some mindless creep is not in the menu or planned activity she penciled in her agenda for the day.

He looks at her. She averts her eyes, quickly racing the aisle to secure a seat before he catches up. Her gaze lands on the back seat, occupied by a single person who is looking down on the food.

Normally, she does not fancy a seat like that. It’s isolated, too far from the crowd even if she is not so keen on mingling with the crowd. But all the seats are occupied, and the young executive from prior should have been able to tell if she forces herself to join one of those occupied tables anyway. If she joins the lone diner at the back there, it would appear like meeting a friend.

But what if that person is also unsavory?

She bites her lips again, praying before betting on all her chances. The person back there seems to be way too preoccupied by the food to even be concerned by anything else. A safe choice. At least if that lone diner turns out to be an unsavory individual as well, she can hope to leave right after the young executive from prior is already out of sight.

Holding her breath, she navigates her way to the said backseat. The lone diner hardly even notices or simply uncaring, which makes everything smoother for her, because this lone diner is busy with a paper and a phone. _Act normal and cool, G,_ she urges herself. If she just takes everything casually, the lone diner will understand that she simply needs a table to eat. While it might be true, the lone diner will not suspect that a table to eat means she needs a refuge from the unsavory stranger.

“Um…” she dumps her tray on the lone diner’s table, silently cursing her frantic steps because she nearly spilled her free ginger ale all over his paper. And just her luck, lone diner is not as absent as she hoped he would be—he lifts his head off the table, looking at her, surprised.

Lone diner turns out to be… handsome. He has chopped lustrous blond hair which ends touch his shoulders. He has narrow-sharp eyes of… she aren’t sure for now—gold color; probably hazel color with a kind of reddish copper tone underneath. Not only blessed with beautiful golden mane, the lone diner possesses prominent cheekbones with a firm mouth line and strong but tempered jaw lines, giving the impression of absolute regal beauty, or if she is to summarize everything she saw—handsome.

Right, this lone diner is handsome to the bones and hair strands. And she feels ridiculous for easily getting tongue-tied because his eyes sharply scanned her presence in a heartbeat. Is he a lion? If he is, then… good, perhaps she is a dove here. Pursued and then trapped. Doves can fly, however. And she cannot even run.

“Do I know you?”

His voice is rather deep, low but with distinctive richness within. And somehow that makes him sound rather… gentle. Perhaps he is indeed a lion and she is a dove because being stared and addressed like that somehow vanquishes every coherent response she can think of.

“N-no, I believe you don’t,” she apologetically shakes her head at him before quickly tilting her head to glance at the other side. The young executive from prior frowns and does not seem to be that pleased that she settled somewhere else—with someone else. “I’m sorry, but if you don’t mind…”

“Him?”

His response is calm and she can only give a small nod.

“Then take your time, Miss.”

 _That easy?_ She looks at him again, only to find him flashing a small reassuring smile at her. “Oh, goodness. Thank you, truly, thank you,” mumbling, she fumbles with her food, nearly knocking down the ginger ale—again. “I hope I did not ruin your paper.”

“No, but it seems to me you nearly ruined your cardigan,” the corner of his mouth twitches as he gently picks up the ginger ale which stands tilted against her elbow. “There. Better?”

“Thank you,” she mumbles again, bringing her vegetarian burger closer to her face. The steam clouds her glasses and she wishes she could die right there because… somehow lone diner makes everything awkward. She considers herself a composed person. The reason she trips and bumps is more due to physical limitation rather than being a klutz. And she will swear she does not do that to appear cute, either. “Oh, God,” she balls her fist, taking off her glasses, snatching her glasses box real quick out of her purse to retrieve the small rag to wipe off the fog.

Just then she realizes bone-crushing level handsome lone diner is looking at her again. Red-faced embarrassed she picks up the bread knife and fork which come with her burger. _Graceful, graceful,_ she keeps telling herself that, because eating humane like a human nearly failed her. Setting her glasses on the table to let the fog die down in a bit, she digs into the food…

“… Miss?”

“Yes?! Oh, my, did I wet you?” she gasps, cupping her mouth at an instant upon hearing diners who seated themselves nearby sounding like they are about to choke back the laughter they nearly let out. Her expression turns sour upon noticing there is also a glimmer of twinkle in Mr. Brazenly Handsome’s leonine eyes in front of her. “You laughed, huh. I thought I did knock my drink and kill your paper there! Then get wet and damp for all I care—today is already hell for me, anyway.”

Why is she venting to a stranger? Just because this lone diner is handsome?

“No, but you are cutting my food,” the lone diner flatly points at his own plate, causing her to look down.

Her expression is a combination of wishing a quick, painless death and begging to be excruciatingly tortured, medieval-style, because—yes, yes, she indeed cut his food instead. _Cursed bad eyesight,_ out of reflex her head slumps over the table in a really unintended comical manner. “I’m—oh, God, I bet you are already bored to death hearing me apologizing. But that truly was unintended! I’m so sorry!”

The lone diner glances at her glasses. “The fog subsides.”

“Oh, thank you…” she quickly snatches the glasses back and wears them in a flash. Only then she realizes what he just said—she truly accidentally maimed his scrambled egg and one of his spicy chicken wings, mistaking them as her own food. “… Oh, dear Lord. I assure you, Sir, I did not want this. I did not…”

This time lone diner cups half of his face with his hand. _Oh, good,_ she sullenly notes, _I behave like a clown that even a handsome stranger laughs now. Sigh._ “Pardon the way that I stare,” he courteously nods at her. “But it seems to me that you need a little bit help.”

“I—got my glasses back. Um—I’ll replace your food, I promise! This one or something else?”

“It’s alright. May I?” lone diner makes a motion of dragging her plate to his direction. When she nods out of curiosity, he gently takes the fork and knife from her clutches and cuts the food. “There.”

“I thank you,” she replies sheepishly. “My, you must think I’m so hapless…”

“Honestly, I was thinking if I intimidated you,” he responds. “And I’d like to apologize if that is the case because I never intended to.”

“Oh?” she curves her lips. Really? Perhaps today is not so bad after all.

“… Although admittedly, I’ve never found a person who thanked me for a second and desperately invoked God’s name for another,” the corner of his mouth twitches again. “Pardon me, Miss.”

“Are you…” she really, really takes a good look at this lone diner now. He has a quirky way of speaking—like courteous and regally old-fashioned at the same time; sans the unnerving odd vibe coming from some people who… seriously address the girls they try to get close with by ‘milady’.

“Yes?”

“Are you sure you do not want a replacement?” she looks down on his plate.

“No,” his reply is firm. “… I’m not even sure if I can finish them.”

She glances down again. Besides the scrambled egg she accidentally maimed, the handsome lone diner has spicy chicken wings—a rather unlikely combination for a lunch. Somehow it is almost like he did not even see what he ordered, merely pointing at the menu behind the counter. “I must admit that is rather… eh, an unlikely pair,” she comments. “But I have nothing against you, really! To each their own.”

“I didn’t have breakfast. Scrambled egg is identical with breakfast so I thought…” his words trail and she immediately catches that the light in his eyes dies a little when he talked. “… And I guess my stomach starts acting up because I only had a drink since last night.”

 _Liar,_ he chastises himself immediately. _You did not have ‘a drink’. You nearly emptied a whiskey bottle._

“And what did you have in the morning?” she looks at him sympathetically now. The stranger appears so alert and the moment after he seems to be so out of this world, drifting away. Despite being polite enough not to make any comment about her and her quip, she cannot help but thinking if he is in a pretty bad shape himself considering how… lively his expression was when he got to smile a little.

 _Stop projecting, Grahnye,_ she quickly reminds herself in silence then. Maybe good-looking people have their own problems and already troubled for… being good-looking. She really wants to sigh loudly now—her insides might get a bit ruined due to the typhoid fever, but her brain is supposed to be untouched. Projecting or not, this lone diner appears so sad and fleeting in a heartbeat; had they been friends, she would straight up ask if he felt depressed.

“… Coffee,” the lone diner replies, in a surprised manner like he isn’t even supposed to answer that.

Well, she isn’t supposed to ask, either, but here they are anyway.

“That’s not good,” she blurts out of reflex. “Um, I’m sorry for being so abrupt, but…” sliding her ginger ale to him, her smile finds its way. “Take mine! It will calm your stomach a bit so you can eat!”

“I’m leaving in a minute or so, anyway.”

“So am I. My building is nearby, though. Take it? Really, please let me make up my clumsiness.”

“I truly don’t mind.”

“Neither do I. Please? That sounds like self-destruction…” realizing she just mentioned it so suddenly, she cups her mouth again, gracefully facing him. “I don’t mean to pry, but considering today did not start well with me either, I’d like to help someone to feel better. You helped me, anyway.”

“Hmmm. You had a bad start and you wanted to help people from feeling bad?” he looks at her.

“Basically?” she looks back.

“… What an unlikely mission,” he mumbles.

“Let me wipe the sauce for you. Let’s tame down the spiciness a bit,” she takes plies of tissue from the box nearby, cleaning his chicken wings one by one. Setting her fries onto her burger plate, he uses the spare plate to set the neutralized wings before presenting them to him. “Here you go.”

“And your food?”

“They are still here.”

“Your hands are dirty with sauce.”

“Oh,” she looks down. “You are right. But I can just wash.”

“… You did not think before doing that?” he looks at her, again, with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Admittedly no,” she answers sheepishly. “I want to get back soon but I want you to eat too.”

“… I’ll do so with gratitude,” the lone diner looks down. “And you are right—screw that egg.”

She smiles, giggling a little bit. “Right. Bon appetite.”

“If you can wait for me a little bit,” the lone diner takes himself off the seat, walking to another section near the counter, approaching one of the restaurant workers. She watches him from a distance, noticing how tall he is when he is leaning close by the smaller door at the back side of the café. He casually keeps his hands in his pocket; his pants are crisp and of light brown color, contrasting his classic oxfords. His red vest gives a subtle fashionable touch on him, and she thinks she can make a good view of his back when he fixes his sleeves, buttoning them back.

This lone diner is indeed handsome—with a tall posture and well-built figure to match the face.

She clears her throat, cleaning her fingers again with the tissues. Not sure why, but a piece of bread clogs in her throat and she needs the water to flush it down. She waits for him to come back, and oddly enough, the ticking clock does not stress her as it typically would. Actually, if anything she does not really mind being detained a moment longer in the café somehow if she can be sure that the lone diner is indeed eating better after this.

“Hello again, cute librarian.”

She gasps. The lone diner is nowhere to be found—instead it was the young executive from prior, seating himself where the handsome stranger previously settled in. “I’m not…”

“Then what are you? A vixen?”

“Excuse me?”

“You owe me one, though,” he smiles. “I mean…”

“I do not,” she clutches her purse.

“Some nice guy opened the door for you and you couldn’t even be bothered to thank me?”

“Thank you. There, you have it,” she rolls her eyes at him.

“Wow, rude. Don’t roll your eyes like that,” he huffs.

She rolls her eyes again, tilting her head to see if the lone diner is back. Regardless of what is what, he told her to wait, and she sure wants to know what it is that he needs from her next.

“Why, looking for your knight?” the annoying stranger grins at her. “Perhaps he chose to settle on something better, don’t you think? You know people like that—the handsome ones tend to be assholes. Why wait on him? I can drive you back to your campus. I’m not irresponsible like that asshole.”

“So,” she keeps her tone flat, “… that means you are ugly?”

“What?!”

“I mean, based on that theory,” she shrugs. “I’m not a college student either, you know, so…”

“So you better remove yourself because that seat is mine.”

She searches around, finding the source of the voice stands stiffly behind the seat. The lone diner is back, and unlike prior, he looks rather different—like containing anger from within. The offending stranger does not stand a chance because the lone diner conveniently seizes the other man by his collar, dragging him to the get him out from the back door while other people watch—including Deirdre who is done cleaning a new pile of tray to be brought to the counter. Deirdre gives her a wary look, and she shoots her a similar look as both women witness the lone stranger casually kicks the uninvited guest out.

She clutches on her purse again. The other man is now fuming, shouting profanities at the lone diner, who merely smirks a little and listens. “That is not the way to call a lady. Want to take it outside?”

“We are outside already!”

“Right. Convenient, isn’t it?” the tall lone diner simply moves closer.

She rushes to the door, grabbing the lone diner before a fight breaks out. The lone diner looks back, meeting her condemning look, but not protesting when she takes him back to the seat. “That was dangerous!”

The lone diner merely hands her a bottle of hand sanitizer. “I’m sorry it took me longer, Miss.”

“You—oh, God,” she slaps her forehead, but merely taking what he handed regardless. “I mean…”

“It’s alright,” the lone diner speaks again. “I thought you needed help and I happen to be in the mood.”

“Of helping?”

“… Of fighting,” he murmurs, instantly appearing crestfallen now that she backs away a little bit.

He looks like he is about to say something, but cancelling his intention at the last minute, which she assumes because he is distracted by the incoming notification he just received on the phone. She watches him frowning at the screen, contemplating it for a moment—and another, when the device vibrates more. The lone diner takes a deep breath before returning the phone into his pocket.

Now that they are standing that close, she thinks she can make a quick glimpse of the texts he received and left hanging on the home screen—

 _(4) Unread messages_  
Sigurd 01:10 PM  
_… You need help, my friend._

Lachesis 01:00 PM  
_Did you eat?_

Alva 12:30 PM _  
Sir, are you still at the law firm?_

Eve 12:15 PM _  
I don’t think we can procure a new computer that fast but I’m trying, Sir._

“I—thank you for the hand sanitizer,” she looks at Deirdre, who shakes her head as if telling her that no, she did not detect anything suspicious from this lone diner so far. Thrown in between she looks at him again, but the lone diner is closely watching the forceful stranger he nearly took out in a fight prior until the latter drives back to wherever he came, as if making sure there will not be any looming disturbance catching her from behind.

The lone diner sighs, treating her to an apologetic but sad smile as he withdraws further from her like making sure he truly is not there to scare anyone, let alone her. He opens the door for her, telling her to be careful still but he will watch her out regardless, altering between profusely thanking her and apologizing for nearly initiating a fight there.

“I’m not faulting you,” she responds as his hand is still conveniently perched on the handle. “I know you meant well. But perhaps … perhaps you need help? You looked so sad.”

“You helped me eating,” he mutters back like he is in disbelief himself. “I owe you.”

“Oh,” she fumbles with her words—again. Nodding at him, she races the concrete pavement once again.

“I truly didn’t mean to scare you, Miss. My apologies.”

“He did that first, though,” trying to lighten the atmosphere, she chuckles softly. “Coffee and whiskey are not the best combination, you see. Take this advice from me, who recently got hospitalized out of typhoid fever. And to be perfectly honest, that one really caught me off guard because—well, it’s probably been more than a while since a man approached me. My, I thought I was an adult,” he frowns and she instantly wishes she could take those words back. “I mean—well, I _am_ an adult, but like…”

“There is no shame in feeling unsafe,” his eyes light up a little bit. “And of course.”

“Oh,” she struggles with her words—again. “This cardigan is indeed cursed. Do I look like a mess?”

“No, it’s pretty,” Deirdre mutters out of reflex from the corner.

The lone diner wears the same soft faint smile on his lips again. “I’m not pointing at a lady,” he speaks in a gentler manner this time. “But if you allow me to be honest, simply because neighboring school kids wear uniform and the nearest university is still too far for the students to eat here.”

“Wow, I didn’t know that,” she blurts out of reflex. “Thank you. You are so polite.”

“My pleasure. I’m not playing guess in regards to a woman’s age either,” he nods simply. “I have to get back at work now, I assume you are the same?”

“I suppose…” she takes out her phone, gasping. “Nearly one-thirty? God, they will chew me out. Um…”

“After you,” he holds the door still. “And I park across the street because my office is at the opposite direction. Will this ease your mind?”

“So polite,” Deirdre mumbles again from the corner, and she nods out of reflex—again, earning that lips-twitching from the lone diner.

“Then please take care of yourself too,” she slips her fries into his hand. He looks down because the gesture surprised him, and she follows-up with a chuckle. “You have to eat real food this time.”

“… Perhaps I do need help.”

She watches him fulfilling his own words by crossing the street to get to his car. He nods again at her; his hair illuminates under the bright sunlight and there is that small smile reigning on his lips as he waves for the last time before opening his driver’s seat. Waving back, she notes how this lone diner truly drives to the opposite direction of the café as he said he would. It is not just his courteousness and gallantry which kind of intrigue her—or the sudden sad expression even when he hauled the unwanted intruder out of the café. It is when he smiled, though—radiant and bright; befitting him more than the repressed sad expression he tried to hide under that taciturnity.

But my God, this lone diner is indeed handsome to the bones.


	3. Hold On

She walks slower than usual. Somehow her eyes are still fixated on the lone diner even after he gets into the car. Perhaps because the lone diner has a silver-colored Ford Expedition SUV appearing unyielding and strong parked on the other side of the street. Perhaps because the car reminds her of the way his back appeared to her the moment he hauled that unwanted stranger out. Or perhaps because…

 _He is nice,_ she thinks again, instantly feeling so shy for even harboring such thought; like deep down she quickly chastises herself that first and foremost, she should not. She shakes her head again, feeling ridiculous for harboring a strong impression of a stranger who just shared a diner table with her. Well, perhaps he is just nice like that. And she could have sworn she thought chivalry was dead until he went out of his way to procure the hand sanitizer for her. And not only that, he even held the door for her too.

She recalls the pleasant twitch at the corner of his mouth when he appeared amused. And how his reaction seemed to be genuine without that typical sneering undertone she is way too familiar with—he treated her… _normally._ And it’s been a long while since the last time she felt like a normal person; a normal kid just like her peers. He treated her with the sense of normalcy that is missing in her life…

But the lone diner also appeared to be so sorrowful—it’s almost like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders! How different his expression was when he got to smile a little. If that SUV is the kind of car he drives, then… safe to say he is well-off, perhaps. She has never truly paid attention to the offices at the direction he returned to, but perhaps he is one of those shiny executives working in a wet place—her term for a place drowned in money.

“God,” suddenly she mellows a bit. “I’m so pathetic. Just because a nice guy treats me like a normal person, I’m overwhelmed,” clutching her purse even tighter as if trying to seek for a sense of safety from something she does not even know, she races the concrete pavement faster. At least that café feels like a safe place for her—first Deirdre’s kindness, then the handsome stranger’s. Perhaps it is true that one should pay attention to helpers when the world feels too bleak to breathe in.

 _... But is it pathetic?_ Her mind races again. It’s been too long since life feels kind to her. Can’t she be impressed? People often tell others these things about how low the bar is, but what if life is just that hard all along that one loses a sense of what is good exactly because nothing good ever happened so far?

“Hey, walk faster, slowpoke!”

She gasps upon hearing someone shouting behind her. A person snickers at her as he runs on the pavement, clicking his tongue multiple times looking so incredibly annoyed, exchanging glances at his watch and the street repeatedly.

“Stupid queue, now I’m late,” he mutters under his breath, catching her glimpse taking refuge under a canopy of an outdoorsy café’s patio. He shoots a look at her from behind his shoulder, like he is genuinely surprised that she is out of breath and appearing so anxious like that.

 _Inhale, exhale,_ she keeps telling herself, remembering everything she learned at the therapy. Why must she be this sensitive? Why is her body made of glass bones and paper skin? Why must she cower easily? Why does it actually take a lot just to… function normally? Why is the world so unkind? Why do people have to shout and speak in loud voice? Why is…

“What a princess.”

 _If only,_ she smiles wryly, recalling her new batch of medicines from the hospital for the recovery, piling the list of vitamins she already takes regularly. Somehow her mind travels to the lone diner again—it will be nice to redo the café scene again, minus the young executive, of course—because there she felt so safe. Because he smiled while most people around her sneered and thought she was merely seeking for attention, with all the condition she tried explaining during the days she was unavailable to do much. And sadly the very same people who think she is lazy would love to bring her condition into conversation when she stated that she would put more effort and work harder—exactly because she keeps feeling like lacking no matter how much time she dedicated and workload she finished compared to the others.

Finally regaining her composure, she returns to the pavement. _Perhaps that lone diner is not even real,_ she thinks sadly again. It’s too good to be true. Most of her life she already felt like that oddball who never fitted anywhere. Unimpressive, mediocre—just… bland while other kids ran free and lived life.

She mentally slaps her forehead for thinking of the lone diner again. Why is she so fixated on a stranger like that? But even if she does not want to, she is. Admiring his good looks is one thing, but on the other hand the ashen sorrowful look, the weird food combination he was getting and did not pay attention to, how little he ate kind of raised a red flag. She has been there—depressed and feeling so mellow because of… many things. And the lone diner appeared so fatalistic; like he was almost glad that the unwanted stranger actually crossed paths with him just so he could have something to fight…

… So he could feel?

Hmmm. Perhaps being that rich is not as easy as it seems. But honestly, at this point she would rather endure a few inconveniences rather than having to be reminded of her own bills and the wretched soap box she calls a car. How old is it even—not to mention it was not in a new condition when she got it!

She decides to just stop thinking. The faster she can return, the more she can finish in a day. Besides, she was hospitalized for nearly a week. Then…

… Grahnye de Brún, twenty-five, just let out a deep breath by the time she returned to her building. It’s pretty quiet now, and needless to say she is late. Another wry smile brews on her lips as she walks up to the elevator, now unsure if she would rather hear Elliot being a jerk to her or a silent compound like this. At least when people swayed back and forth she knows she is not alone and that she will not… stand out.

Nobody dislikes feeling exceptional—the problem is, sadly feeling exceptional does not always mean exceptionally good. Feeling like an odd ball for most of her life, she can definitely use some… humanity.

She regrets not sneaking her burger knife from the café into her purse by the time she arrives at her building. Elliot’s smirk welcomes her right when she is about to drape her cardigan over the chair, and while she contemplates stabbing him with a mechanical pencil for the extra act he puts up, he quickly opens his mouth to say something like he sure understands she is so wishing she can kick him right now.

“Hello, Princess! The boss wants to see you.”

“Imka needs me?” she frowns. “What happened?”

“How do I know? I mean, I’m not late,” Elliot shrugs, almost like he enjoys seeing her writhing in agony. “And no, not Imka. The branch though—Chagall.”

“If the number-two wants me, it still will be similar, Elliot,” she rolls her eyes. “And please, I’m not late because I loved to, alright? Something happened.”

“Like what, osteoporosis?”

“Elliot,” she barks a warning tone. “And no. That still sounds better than dealing with a creep.”

He snorts the moment she said the word. “A man creeping on you?” he waves his hand. “You know, Grahnye, if I were you, I’d probably say a thank you. Miracles don’t happen often, you know?”

“… That is not nice,” she grits her teeth. “Are you truly this low?”

“Tut tut, boss calls, Grahnye,” Elliot waves his hand again, turning his back from her to head to his own cubicle. “I bet that was not nice. Perhaps a country girl like you should just stay in Leonster.”

She balls her fists. Inhale, exhale—what did the therapy say again? Oh, right. Why must she heed the therapist again—at this rate, perhaps all she needs is a boxing champion’s wise words. So she is supposed to unpack her anxiety and repressed anger but other people are not responsible to not be a jerk? Perhaps a headbutt works better than a therapy for assholes.

Without saying anything else she braves herself to steer her legs to Chagall’s office room. As ambitious as he can be, he is not that daft, anyway. Imka is impartially benevolent and fatherly, so she hopes that trait at least leaves a footprint on his son.

Knocking weakly, she exhales, bracing herself for what Chagall might ask of her. Hey, perhaps it is not that bad. Despite her occasional illness here and there, her performance has always been steady and she never caused any damage so far. ‘Stellar' is subjective, but she is fairly confident in the cold hard evidence that is the reports and papers she finished. Her nerves calm down now that confidence slowly runs back in her veins, and she grabs the handle bar proudly when the voice inside tells her to come in.

“Elliot said you needed me,” she starts, composing a smile, sitting gracefully on the seat before her.

“Hmmm. You seem to be frank,” Chagall peeks at her from the paper he is holding. “I don’t think we even ever spoke before.”

“No,” she quickly responds, “—Sir.”

“Well,” he shrugs. “Then I regret it must come to be like this—you are fired.”

“I’ll be delighted for a promotion… hold on—what…?”

“Yeah. Fired,” Chagall sets his paper conveniently. “That’s all, though.”

“But—why?” she hates that she squeaks. Really? She already pictured there is at least an oasis in this hellish workplace with cold and unwelcoming peers like this. After her unpleasant lunch experience she hopes that there is at least a bit of… consolation. Something which makes her feel like she matters. And definitely she can use the bonus to finally give her car the beauty transformation it deserves…

“I don’t think you’d want to know,” Chagall responds, looking down on his paper again. “Grahnye.”

 _You are firing me and you just learned about my name today?!_ —She blinked again. There has to be an explanation behind this… right? “Of course,” she keeps her voice composed and professional. “Because if my performance is lacking, I’m willing to improve—proven by the results of my work so far.”

“Well,” Chagall glances down again. “Admittedly there is no flaw in your work, eh—Grahnye.”

 _Maybe you should not fire me if my name tastes like fire in your throat,_ she contemplates, realizing Chagall has taken a step back now that she looks at him with such intense gaze that it is almost like she is eating him alive. “And that will be…”

Chagall seems to be half-annoyed and half-hesitant being held to answer her like that. At this rate, she does not care. If she is going to be fired, at least she will stand her ground and not let hearsay ruin her track record. It’s a family business. She hates having to go layer over layer just to get her complaint through. Imka is kind and just, but Chagall is still his son. And she is not planning to go without getting an answer, folding her arms sitting in front of him without any threatening manner but her entire body language signals that she is going to sit there until she gets an explanation.

“Frankly, it seems some people are kind of displeased with you,” he says then. “I’m not going to sit there like a kindergarten teacher having to break off a fight but I can’t have that disrupt my workforce.”

“I… pardon?” that truly is unexpected. She is going to be fired because—because of—grudge? Because some people are so-called displeased with her but unable to even tell her like functioning adults they are? “I’m sorry, but what?”

“You tend to leave early,” Chagall looks at her.

“Early lunch? Twelve and twelve thirty is early—especially because I finished quicker than them?!” she wants to bang her head against the desk now. “I’m supposed to be mindful of other people’s paces—oh, sorry—incapability!—while they are not even inclined to be a little bit kinder to me?”

“You took leave often,” Chagall keeps his head low just so he does not need to face him.

“I was sick,” she reiterates, puffing. “I can always show you the medical record.”

“And you let your personal sentiment rule you at work.”

“You mean Elliot Heirhein harassing me,” she sighs. “Are you truly doing this now?”

“You got sick, often,” Chagall repeats as if finding an evidence to pressure her with.

“And I took my work to my beds,” she grits her teeth again. “Please check with Boss Imka—I’ve never failed meeting a target and I always, always correspond accordingly. Actually, I went down with typhoid fever exactly because the job exhausted me. But see, I finished everything I was tasked for—“

“Then perhaps you should work somewhere else, doing something else, don’t you agree, Grahnye?” Chagall cuts her in, looking truly bored now. “Come on. Pack your things.”

“I hope Elliot does not destroy this place,” she purses her lips tightly, taking herself off from the chair. “Good afternoon, Sir.”

She does not look back after that. Elliot is practically unseen for the rest of the afternoon, which she suspects on purpose just so she cannot hunt for his head. Elliot is probably a jerk, but he is not much of a brave one, anyway—if he is, he can at least face her and tell what the _actual_ problem is instead of having to frame her like the torn between the sheets like this. _A family business,_ she ponders, in which most people have been there for years and knowing each other. But will this be the end?

She really has no idea how she manages to hold back her tears and bites her lips as she throws her stuff into a box. She is hoping to see the HRD to claim her health insurance. Now that she is fired so abruptly, she doubts she will at least get the amount she was supposed to be getting as an employee. Since Chagall recited so-called personal sentiment to single her out, how about she takes her personal sentiment _now_ by demanding her deserved compensation through a third party help? Yes, she does not want to see these people again. Yes, she wants to burn them alive in an oven. Yes—

… No. Who is this third party that she hopes to help her? And she thinks she has colleagues. She thinks she had friends. Apparently… not?

With a pack of tissue in hand she strolls to meet the HRD at her office, only to be informed that the person she is supposed to meet is out meeting Imka. Pushing a smile, she tells the intern who received her that she might just call later—

She slams her leg against the glass door, pouring her anger and sadness at the same time. Her face reddens when she feels a soft but sudden pull across her pencil skirt. Looking down she catches that the slit is torn a little bit.

 _Just great,_ she tightens her lips, not sure if she won’t be able to stop crying right there if she stays longer. And this glass door is still not budging like the eternal nemesis that it is.

 _I feel stupid. I must look stupid as well,_ she contemplates the box burdening her arms and her torn skirt.

“Need help, Grahnye?”

She looks up. Elliot opens the door for her, smiling—no, _smirking,_ like he knows what happened. Well, perhaps he does. After all, how dare they making it sound like _she_ was the one with personal problem there. It does not escape her either that he called her name—her real name, without any one-sided nickname only he likes. _Clear now,_ she musters a tight smile. The day she is out of this building is the day Elliot Heirhein deigns himself to call her by her name. “That’s so kind of you, Elliot,” she smiles sweetly, purposefully dropping her box on Elliot’s shiny shoes. She merely stands there, waiting for Elliot to help picking up her box she has graciously dropped on his feet without a faltering smile while he grimaces and winces.

“I’m so glad you are fired,” Elliot mutters under his breath, limping as he begrudgingly picks up her box. She shrugs, sparing him an innocent look as she takes back the box from him.

She does not look back when she hastily races the corridor to get to the elevator. Her purse dangles on her shoulder, and despite the box burdening her arms once again, she has no plan to stop. _Inhale, exhale,_ she keeps telling herself like it is a mantra, trying so hard not to frantically press on the elevator button. The moment the elevator is open she lunges inside, quickly slamming its door shut before anyone else can get inside.

Normally she will not. And she is not sure Elliot will race there to get her.

Perhaps he won’t. But she just wants to get out of there—soon, sooner than soon…

The elevator stops at the lobby, giving her the familiar _ding!_ sound she has known for these past three years. Three years—three years and for nothing, for a boss like that, for coworkers like that—

Her head spins. She cannot wait to get in her car, really—

Her back bumps against the security guard who is chatting with the idle receptionist. Alerted, he turns around, smiling, recognizing her familiar face. “Can I help you with that, Ma’am?”

“Certainly,” she murmurs, handing her box to the security guard, following him as they head to the basement to reach for her car.

“Working hard again as always?” the well-meaning security guard asks, patiently waiting on her to unlock her car. “I saw you leaving late a couple of times…”

“I—“ she swallows, not sure how to respond to that. She just got fired. Fired, fired, fired—and how come he is nice like this? How come people seem to be nicer after she got fired? Why didn’t they when she was still there? “Thank you, that is very kind of you,” she decides to just let it slip, concentrating on the guard loading the box into her passenger seat instead.

“Oh, it’s alright,” he waves at her after closing the door. She feels like hiding her face under her cardigan when he frowns, noticing the unkind song her door made when closing in. The guard glances at the door once again, but she quickly gets to the passenger seat, inserting her key and making a motion of rolling her window. The guard then understands that she is politely conveying that she is about to leave, so he simply nods with a smile. “Take care!”

She waits until the guard leaves the basement, acting like searching something in her dashboard. Igniting the key, her eyebrows frown upon hearing the noise her car makes, and she prays that the guard is not coming back to check on her. That well-meaning gesture is nice but after what happened she feels like having exhausted all her endurance quota in a day, not wanting people to give her a look and now asking a thing or two about her worn-out car as well.

 _Just like my body, isn’t it?_ She slams her foot on the gas panel once again, lightly hammering her fist against her seat when her car is making yet another ungodly loud noise.

When the old battered machine finally takes off, she breathes relief, carefully navigating the soap box out of the building. After a while she is already back in the open at the street, thankful for the red light because it forces people to slow down and mind their driving. Her expression is pretty hollow as she stares into the distance, contemplating the red light some meters away before her.

Just then everything begins to dawn on her.

 _I got fired,_ she breathes out, keeping her hands steady on the steering wheel.

As the red light changes into green, an impatient driver honks loudly when her car takes a while to move.

 _This is unfair,_ she inhales deeply again as her foot pushes on the panel.

A sympathetic driver rolls down her window, catching her attention with her hand; pointing at her tire.

She blinks and rolls down the window as well. “Flat tire?”

“I think! You may want to have it repaired!” the driver nods before pulling her window back up.

“Hey, slowpoke, are you moving or nah?!” the same driver who just honked loudly at her shouted again.

She rolled down her window again. Why are people so keen on making her explode? Is her patience only good to be abused and taken advantage of? Can’t people be kinder to each other? Can this world slow down? What’s wrong with these people again? They want a piece, perhaps she should.

She is thinking of something _mean_ to cuss back at the driver with when another car rolling at the lane next to hers already rolls down the window. She expects another disgruntled driver or their passenger to join forces to chew her out, but…

“Why don’t _you_ move, wretched asswipe?!”

She gasps. That ferocious yelling—no, _roaring_ just now—

She glances out of reflex. Hold on—that car just now seems familiar—

But another figure at the front passenger seat quickly pulls the window up again. Expression of distaste is spelt clearly across her face. She looks at the passenger—a young woman with shoulder-length beautiful blond hair dressed in white shirt and plaid skirt shakes her head. She wears checkered tie, and there is a certain logo embroidered on her shirt’s front pocket. She can faintly hear her speaking before the window is truly closed tight. Since her car is next to hers in parallel manner, it is easier for her to steal further view of the other girl, whom by then she imagines chastising the driver who just unleashed a leonine roar against the impatient driver.

 _Leonine roar,_ she thinks again. The well-built powerful SUV recovers quickly and sails the road again, leaving her car in dust. She cannot believe it—it truly is the lone diner! And the blond girl looks like one of those elite private school students like he mentioned to her at the café. A relative, then? The girl in uniform’s facial features do remind her of his, so perhaps…

 _What an unlikely occurrence,_ she muses, thinking how courteous and gallant the lone diner was when they met. When their cars are close to each other again, she beams in awe when the front passenger seat rolls down again, revealing the same blond school girl from prior throwing a bottled drink into a nearby trash can bulls-eye.

“Why did you do that?!”

“He deserved it!”

“… Were you drinking again?”

“Again? Sissi, I’m not a drunkard.”

“I’m worried about you!”

“I’m alright.”

“Are you? You keep saying that and yet…” the blond school girl clicks her tongue, realizing her window is half-down. Grahnye pauses at her seat, feeling the girl shooting icy glare at her before roughly closing her window in full—as if warning her not to eavesdrop on them.

“Whatever,” she sighs, adding more speed as the silver SUV next to her gallops. Yes, she overheard them. And then what? Will that make her bosses magically withdraw their decision to fire her? Will that make Elliot stop being a jerk? Will that give her car the vamp it needs?

 _I just got fired,_ the realization dawns on her again.

She pulls to the side, feeling water starts filling her eyes. Her chest feels tight and her breaths are short—again—that she begrudgingly rolls her window for some fresh air as she steadies herself with a pack of tissue in her tight clutch.

The silver SUV from prior stops at a few building ahead of her, revealing the blond school girl from prior coming out of the front passenger seat. Somehow her eyes follow—a music theater or some sort. Her lips curve wryly again—no wonder a student of an elite private school takes musical instrument lessons or even performs there. She quickly wipes her eyes when the blond girl sharply turns her head at her, perhaps suspecting her to watch on her.

Just then the silver SUV makes another turn to ride the road back. The driver pulls down the window, giving hand signal to the cars behind while he makes a pivot to return to the lane.

Their eyes meet.

It is him. The handsome lone diner from prior!

He appears to be surprised but there is no time to make an interaction because cars behind begin to honk at his SUV, prompting him to quickly navigate his car back into the lane. By the time the SUV’s powerful engine kicks a start, it does not take long for him to muster a smooth departure while she throws away the tissue plies she used to the nearby bin.

They missed.

She quickly pulls her window back up, returning her concentration onto the street. Darn it, she could not even throw like that school girl could. And she thought she succeeded evading people’s looks and stares—the handsome lone diner caught her while she was crying.

She did not know he truly is a lion like that. And now she wonders if he added another description of her as well by the time his car faded away—the awkward, matronly librarian he took into his seat because some creepy executive would not leave her alone; the one who previously helped him eat with such confident manner is having a breakdown at the street—

 _… The financial advisor who just got unceremoniously fired,_ she voluntarily finishes her thoughts.

Well, well, isn’t she back to feel like crying again, somehow.

* * *

 

He grunts.

His jaw feels hurt after receiving one left hook and one powerful head-spinning uppercut, and sweat drops begin clouding his vision as his blond strands start to feel rather damp on his forehead. Before him, a blue-haired man makes a quick sweep of his fringes, fixing his bandanna which keeps them away from his eyes. He waits patiently until the blue-haired man gets into a readying stance, and we he does, he pivots his leg, snapping a powerful kick at him.

The blue-haired man frowns, evading it. “You are past your limit.”

“No way,” he replies, wiping his forehead consecutively in a row now.

“Eldie,” the blue-haired man repeats in a firmer tone. “Did you even sleep last night?”

“Not you too, Sigurd,” he grunts, throwing a punch at his friend. “To answer your question—I did.”

“Sure,” Sigurd whistles, cocking his head in a heartbeat to evade the vicious counterpunch. “And for how many hours?”

“Is that important?” he responds, blocking Sigurd’s straight kick with a roundhouse kick. That very moment he quickly takes turn, swiping his left leg and makes a wide turn to take Sigurd at the nape.

“Oof,” Sigurd whimpers when his instep hammers against the back of his neck. “You hit hard as always.”

“You fight skilled as always too,” there is a glistening light in his eyes when he replies. “Also, four.”

“Four hours!” Sigurd gasps. “Eldie…”

“My sister thinks I’m on self-destruct,” he sighs— _“Fuck.”_

Sigurd frowns upon hearing the curse easily escape his best friend’s throat. This is definitely not the Eldigan he is familiar with. The Eldigan he knows since childhood is composed and will not roar unless his fuse is truly, truly burning. Besides, Eldigan does not need to cuss like that to get his point across—he has the ability to make people answer by asking question straight to the point… with taciturnity.

“You know, probably she is right.”

“I’m not a kid. She is.”

“I mean she lives with you, blonde,” Sigurd sighs again, evading another wheel kick Eldigan tries to land on him. “She must have seen something I did not. Something you yourself refuse to admit.”

“I go to work. I exercise. I defeat you,” Eldigan grumbles again.

“That one is not decided yet,” Sigurd chuckles, feeling tickled by his best friend’s line there. Eldigan wastes no time to pursue him with a series of rapid abstract punches, and he finds himself  getting backed into a corner as Eldigan’s footwork slowly takes over the mat, gradually invading his personal space and creeping into his scope that it almost feels overpowering.

… Almost.

“Leave me be,” Eldigan growls a little bit. “I’m an adult.”

Sigurd’s eyes trace Eldigan’s movements like a hunting eagle. In a split decisive second he tilts his body a little bit, making a subtle diagonal motion to save his head from his friend’s straight punch. Eldigan quickly turns around, trying to compensate the penetrated defense by mustering a back-hand fist. But Sigurd acts quicker by skillfully unbalancing Eldigan’s legs through a quick, powerful leg sweep. The moment Eldigan loses his center since his pivoting leg can no longer hold him still, Sigurd follows up by positioning his crossed left arm against his right forearm, adding more pressure power to slam Eldigan in the chest with. Eldigan coughs. And falls onto the mat.  And… loses.

“You are my friend, Eldie,” Sigurd seats himself beside his sprawling body while his blond-haired friend manages his breathing as he lies on the ground. “We are concerned.”

“Then don’t.”

“Then what happened between you and Ethlyn?” Sigurd asks again, gentler this time. “You know well such thought is cruel and will never cross her mind.”

“… Concerned older brother, huh?” Eldigan blurts, slapping Sigurd on the back with his towel.

“You will do the same about Lachesis,” Sigurd laughs, dropping his towel on his blond-haired friend until he gasps. “Don’t you trust me?”

Eldigan scoffs, peeling himself off the ground. “I’ve been deep helping my father, why are you worried?”

“Exactly why it hit you hard, Eldie.”

“Sigurd—“ Eldigan sighs, but holding his hands up regardless. “Alright. I don’t know where to begin.”

“That’s progress,” Sigurd throws a bottle of fresh orange juice at the blond-haired man.

“I don’t see any,” Eldigan spats, opening the bottle like he is ready to snap another person’s neck broken with it. “If anything, I keep seeing Papa’s face everywhere. On every inch of those paper stacks Alva brought to my desk. Closing my eyes I remember his bluish face. I recall how heavy his breaths were. I kept checking on my blouse feeling like traces of Lachesis’ liters of tears are still there.”

“You talked,” Sigurd replies calmly. “Progress.”

“Damn it, you are not supposed to sound like Quan here,” Eldigan mutters under his breath, bringing the bottle to his mouth to drink the juice, gloriously missing it. “… Fuck.”

“There, another,” Sigurd sympathetically pats his back, handing him his own bottle which he has not opened yet. “Eldie, this has to stop. Lachesis needs you—no, _you_ need you.”

“There is nothing unattended about Lachesis,” Eldigan stubbornly clams his palm against Sigurd’s bottle, making a nice, loud cracking sound that Sigurd cocks his eyebrow hearing that. “You think I’ll let my sister be hungry or sad? I let her skip school today, great brother, aren’t I?”

“Eldie.”

“I’ll buy you a drink after this. See, I’m not daft.”

“Eldie.”

“Do you like this brand a lot?”

“Eldie!”

Eldigan stops. Sigurd slaps his face with a towel again, and he sighs. “Thanks.”

“Let’s feed you after this,” Sigurd not-so-gently throws the towel over his mane. “I understand, really. If it is not for Ethlyn, I might have wetted my pants. I mean—adulting is hard.”

“My father left me a grand sum,” Eldigan murmurs, downing half of the juice before returning the bottle to Sigurd. “Or you can say the entire family fortune is in my pocket. Of course there are things I need to do, there are charities Ethlyn and her team would want me to look at, but…”

“Then let’s begin from there,” Sigurd says. “If you know where to start, it won’t be that hard, huh?”

“... I am no lion, Sigurd,” Eldigan blurts, earning Sigurd’s instant silence. Realizing what he has done, the blond-haired heir to his family business sighs again. “I do not want to do this.”

“Doing what?”

“Tracing my father’s footprints, what else?!” Eldigan’s tone increases, frustrated. “I need to do what I must do. And Lachesis needs my fortitude, not an emotional older brother. I’m not supposed to be fragile,” he hisses. “How about this then—I’ll get to work with Ethlyn once I can procure a new computer for Papa— _damn,_ MY office!”

“What happened to your computer?”

“Nothing happened to it, but the password…”

“Password?”

“And it’s not my computer. It’s Papa’s.”

Sigurd sighs. “Alright, how about this. You know I’m not well-versed at desk job either, but Quan is great at it. Let’s go out this weekend. You, me, great wine, and Quan with your paperwork.”

“Ethlyn did suggest me hiring an independent financial curator,” Eldigan ruffles his mane, looking angrier than an angry lion. “Perhaps that’s what I need to do first. But how—no, where?”

“You can headhunt,” Sigurd clasps his chin.

“And let people know that my father is dead-DEAD, Sigurd?”

“People _knew_ he is, Eldie. Don’t you read newspapers? They had obituaries about him.”

“No.”

“You are shiny.”

“You never washed your hair?”

“… Eldie.”

“I’m not repeating sob stories.”

“Who said you should?”

“Listen, I know my father has—“ Eldigan frowns, clenching his fists for a second. “Had—“

“It’s alright,” Sigurd pats his back again, patiently waiting for him to finish. “Yes, he has a great name.”

“Exactly,” Eldigan sighs. “And thank you.”

“Anytime and anything, friend,” Sigurd replies with a smile. “And?”

“Don’t you think it will sound rather uncanny to shun those who actually had liaison and history of working with—or for—Papa in the past if I posted open recruitment?” Eldigan smiles back—wryly though, as if the weight of the world _humps_ him on the back. “And with such workload and responsibility, this person has to be super smart and super reliable.”

“You are anxious.”

“Thank you, Sigurd-Obvious.”

“Whoever that person is, they will act as your assistant, won’t they?” Sigurd blurts. “It is time for you to shine as well—share what you like and what you don’t—your vision and everything, and then leave it to this curator to craft a plan for you.”

Eldigan pauses. Some moment later his eyes temper a little as a small smirk begins appearing on his face. “Are you sure you are still the same Sigurd I sparred with, or did I hit your nape too hard?”

“I’m bad at taking my own advice, anyway,” Sigurd grins back. “Which is why I need yours when I’m being dumb. And apparently, according to Ethlyn I am always dumb.”

“… If you would be so kind to tell Ethlyn I apologize for lashing out at her,” Eldigan ponders.

“Already forgiven before you even asked, Eldie,” Sigurd’s warm smile emerges, sneaking an arm around the blonde’s shoulder to squeeze him. “We understand. Even if you think we don’t, we are with you.”

“This family is now mine to lead and manage,” Eldigan mutters, more to himself than Sigurd. “Alright, perhaps it won’t hurt to meet up with Quan and Ethlyn like you planned…”

“Our Eldie is back,” Sigurd jams his fist against the blonde’s shoulder.

“Old Eldie will strike back,” Eldigan truly smirks now as he gently pushes his knee against Sigurd’s navel.

He chats up some more with Sigurd before disappearing into the bathroom to shower and change. Evening car lights begin pouring onto the street, and his lips part a little noticing Lachesis’ text he just received as he slings his duffel bag over his shoulder.

Lachesis 7:05 PM  
_Eldie, I’m done with the violin lesson!_

“Sissi?” he speaks into the phone, sparing a grateful look at Sigurd who already heads out and holds the door for him. “Yeah. I was just done at the gym myself. I’ll pick you up—stay inside, alright? … Come on, Lachesis, I’m not chaperoning, it’s called valuing your safety.”

Sigurd snorts. “And you called me protective. Pot calling kettle _blond_.”

Eldigan playfully darts a hammer kick to shut up his friend.

“… And I think we can grab a bite before I get us home?” Eldigan blurts. Sigurd gasps, hearing Lachesis’ delighted _squeal_ on the phone.

“I’m so worried, Eldie!! I’m so glad you would want to eat!”

Eldigan curves his lips, an unlikely memory flashes in his mind. “Perhaps I owe that lady somehow.”

“Huh?”

“Huh? Ah, nothing. I’ll drag Sigurd with us too.”

“I don’t even care where, you eat and that is important!” Lachesis squeals on the phone again. “Alright, I’ll wait inside. Come fast, my steed.”

Eldigan pockets the phone back into his pants.

“What is this about you owing a lady?” Sigurd smirks.

“What isn’t?” Eldigan purposefully replies like he is bored. “To think I nearly scared a lady to death out of my road rage as well…”

“YOU road-raged?”

“Yeah?”

“… I’m so glad I got to knock you out today,” Sigurd sighs. “Right. Let’s go get the Nordion princess.”

Eldigan smiles a little. If only he could apologize to that lady in a peculiar car too—he had purposefully not saying anything—not only because the cars behind him behaved worse than hungry velociraptors; but also… the look on her eyes—it was so sad, so _ashen_ and bleak that he would feel so brazen to even stop to ask if she was alright for having read a woman’s face like that. And previously he told her he did not play guess or play reading ladies.

But still, his mind flies on the woman he encountered twice today—first at the café, then again during the road rage. The woman with the softest wavy brown hair he has ever seen so far—the woman with gentle eyes with a streak of contained unyielding spirit inside who ties her hair with a red ribbon, the woman with elegant taste judging from the cardigan she wears. The woman with shapey legs judging from the fitting pencil skirt he saw at the café—

Eldigan coughs.

 _Fuck,_ he ponders.

This time Sigurd does not hear it, however.


	4. Not Like This

Eldigan forces himself to smile when their butler announces there are guests waiting for him. The old man has been working for the Nordion household since he was a child, with his wife staying as the domestic worker who takes care of their laundry and food. He hates to admit it, but his family, being one of those so-called old families with old money, they said—possesses such connection, with people of generations working for a Nordion from time to time like it is a tradition worthy to defend.

Regardless, his late father was a busy man who ran his household the way he ran his company. Eldigan does not remember the last time they ever truly hugged like father and son, although—much to his relief, he is sure that the late Papa Nordion cherished Lachesis to the point of nearly spoiling her. Still delving in grief, he lets out a soft sigh, recalling those times where it became clearer and clearer to him that if anyone was allowed to disturb Papa from anything, it would be Lachesis.

Eldigan recalls something else, however. Like how his eyebrows would twitch upon hearing Papa’s gentle call—“Yes, Princess? What do you need from Daddy?” when Lachesis, from the family landline, reached Papa in the middle of important meeting. Barely around an hour ago he got a scolding because he, as the oldest child—no, the _son,_ should know better than behaving _wildly_ like that.

If he was to be honest, he had no idea what wild there meant. He did understand that Papa wanted to build him to be a man worthy of the family—the name, the status, the fortune, someone worthy of _him_ as the father. And truly that Lachesis was seven when it happened, but he, being fifteen, was still technically a child too, and as an adult he recognizes that… yes, actually there are many things to easily confuse a child, even if said child is too, technically, a teenager who just hit his puberty. Looking back, however, he would also sincerely agree that it does not absolve the fact that teenage boys are assholes as well. He basks in the memory of Sigurd telling him that fifteen to twenty is basically the age range when people are either being stupid or being assholes—or both. So while he might have been a dumb boy back then, the good news is that he is not alone.

“That means the other boy you called asshole isn’t alone as well,” ah, Quan, the ever-thinker Quan, did not wait long to voice his own opinion as well. “Did you say that to everyone, Sigurd? If so, then technically if Eldie can feel better for not being the only dumbass in this world, that asshole can say that he is not the only asshole in the entire universe as well."

“We do not talk about that, Quan,” Sigurd then shushed him.

“As the brain of the group, I can ask,” Quan grinned.

“Brain of the group, he said,” Eldigan, fifteen, and allegedly definitely not a dumbass nor an asshole like other teenage boys out there, chimed in. “Brain of the group does not consecutively face off with that new kid from the block for five days and screams food war.”

“He initiated it,” Quan remarked sourly. “Anyway, Eldie—the name’s Travant.”

“He only wanted your smoothie,” Eldigan replied.

“And that is my private property,” Quan countered.

“Now you even make a rich boy like Eldie look like an angel. What happened to the law of nature? Rich boys are supposed to be the asshole ones,” Sigurd taunted.

“Depends,” Quan offered an answer. “If it is you? Nonexistent.”

“It’s just a smoothie,” Eldigan rolled his eyes.

“And it’s still mine,” Quan fumed, leaving his other two friends speechless.

Eldigan checks his appearance once again. Conrad, or as Lachesis put it, the handyman in a suit—did not say who came that evening. But exactly because he did not that Eldigan can immediately tell it’s none other than Quan and Sigurd, picking him up as expected. If it is someone else, Conrad would say. But Quan and Sigurd are his childhood friends, who grew up with Conrad’s presence in the household just the way he did. When he was a child, Conrad gardened, cleaned, while his wife cooked and did laundry. The busier Papa got, Conrad began filling in the role of an actual butler—driving him and Lachesis when they had practices, when they had extracurricular school activities, or even when they were about to hangout with their friends. Lachesis disliked chaperons, but Papa kept saying it was for safety, to which the heiress could only nod. He, however, chewed his protests straight into the chest.

Great men observe, Papa said. Great men observe instead of complaining, and that, supposedly, according to Papa, differentiates a manchild and a grown-up.

Eldigan reminded Papa that he was twenty-two. Papa reminded him that five, seventeen, or even twenty-two, he would still be Eldigan—Eldigan _Nordion_ —and it would not change.

“How come you are entrusted with many things?” one day Lachesis, with fiery determination burning her brightly from the inside, barged into his room. At first it started as a venting session. She was fifteen and growing, and dumb Papa was too dumb to realize that teen girls needed room for themselves—and no, not for some secret agenda such as establishing world order or something similar—but Papa had Conrad ready with the car for what was supposed to be her mall-venturing adventure. Eldigan, not knowing the brewing cold war, easily walked into his room, dumping a box of burgers he got with Sigurd on the way from watching rugby match on top of his desk—only to be ambushed by Lachesis.

“Give me like five minutes to take off my shoes and everything so I can answer,” Eldigan relented.

“No,” Lachesis folded her arms, with something falling from behind her back that it caught his attention.

“What is that, Sissi?”

“My fucking sword, Eldie. Three minutes left!”

“Darn, in what timezone?” Eldigan quickly slipped himself off the jersey he had been wearing, throwing his socks onto the bed. Tearing himself off the undershirt he was wearing, he quickly raided his closet.

“Eugh, gross,” Lachesis snickered upon seeing the fossils he left scattering around. “Back to the point. It’s because you are a man, isn’t it?”

At that time, Eldigan paused. He hated to admit it—he hated to do so, but…

“Is that not because I’m older?” he muttered in a low tone. “Almost eight years older too.”

“Conrad would be driving you around if your name was Hilda Friege,” Lachesis spat.

“What problem do you have with a Hilda Friege?” Eldigan cocked his eyebrow, wisely removing the offending socks from Lachesis’ keen eyes.

“Everything. She’s a bitch, but that’s not the point,” Lachesis sighed, dropping her weight onto his bed. “Listen—it’s because you are a man, isn’t it? I hate everything…”

“Sit here, Sissi,” Eldigan gestured at her. “Also— _shit,_ those socks are Ralph Lauren.”

“Still gross. It’s not the brand, dumbass, it’s because of you.”

“Nice to hear that,” he responded sullenly.

“… Do you love me?” Lachesis spoke softer, slowly dragging herself to where he sat. “I’m not your full-blooded sister, you know. I mean like, have you ever felt weirded because suddenly Papa decided to take me living with you after my mother died? Have you ever… begrudged me? Like, you think I stole Papa away from you. I mean—do you hate me?”

Eldigan paused. Lachesis grew even more restless because her question remained unanswered. He tried to say something, realizing that out of everything Papa prepared him for, the older lion never touched the subject of… emotion. So he could only look back at his half-sister, mouth gaped without anything coming out—anything, and Lachesis, realizing he was probably going to be a statue, anyway, fumed, throwing the dirty socks and jersey at his face before rubbing her hands as if she just touched a pile of dirt. However he managed to run after her before she left his room, hand gently clasping on her wrist that he pulled her back, bending his head a little so he could look his sister in the eyes.

“This question scared me more than your arrival,” he chuckled. “No, Sissi.”

“You are lying,” Lachesis muttered under her breath. “You said that just to appease me.”

“Wanna hear something? Sometimes I’d gladly trade place with you,” Eldigan sighed, grabbing the burger box he previously dumped onto the desk. “At least you can call whenever you want to.”

Lachesis paused. But when his half-sister stole one burger right before his eyes, he knew that Lachesis was not as disgruntled as she had been unlike prior.

“Eldigan?”

“Just a minute!” he shouts at the door, noticing Conrad’s voice from the outside. Throwing a black blazer over a white shirt, Eldigan quickly fixes his belt, smoothing his jeans and reaches for a pair of leather shoes from a rack in the closet. Grabbing his keys and everything else, Eldigan banishes his phone into the depth of his jeans pocket, contemplating his room as if it was his first time being there.

 _This room suddenly feels too big,_ he ponders. He is wealthy—no question asked, just like how well-off Quan and his family are, and Sigurd, too, despite his casualness, is _comfortable._ They are one of those young elites who would pass as ‘rich kids on Instagram’, probably, and bless their souls for not doing that. His room is comfortable and spacious. It isn’t just the bed or the computer on a desk with three tall neatly-arranged book shelves standing at the other corner; his bed is pretty big too, befitting his tall figure. He has his own bathroom just like Lachesis does, and although his closet may not be as packed as Lachesis’, it is still there, a completely separated room one can reach from a connecting door in his bedroom. The Nordion family house has everything needed to pamper its well-off occupants, anyway—air conditioner for the summer, fireplace for the winter, big flat-screen TV, a nice kitchen he hardly ever used himself, putting his faith into Conrad’s wife Sally-Anne to serve his family with the kind of standard demanded by Papa Nordion.

Eldigan traces the floor as if he is trying to evade landmines. He chastises himself, repeating the mantra he did when he went to the law firm and met Ethlyn— _do not be afraid._ This time he isn’t. After all, it’s just his best friends trying to give him solid advice because he feels like bumping hard into a dead end. After all, it’s just Saturday night with Sigurd and Quan, something they have done many times even before they reached the age when they could grow a beard.

… First Saturday night to go out with Sigurd and Quan after Papa Nordion passed away, though.

Eldigan opens the door. Conrad is still smiling at him; his gray hairs glisten under the lamp—that sight and the smile are familiar as always, but still make him feel uneasy somehow. Suddenly he feels like being transported into the past—again, as a teenage boy, and this time dumb _and_ an asshole for wanting to fake… oh, he does not know, what kind of illness which can cancel what is supposed to be a good night with the bros? He tried faking measles once when he did not want to practice piano. And it beautifully lasted for some two-minutes of glory because Papa, cackling, reminded him that it could not be since he vaccinated his kids.

“Uh—Papa, I have carpal tunnel,” he tried again, another day, because thinking of Chopin’s _Fantaisie_ made his stomach turn. He still felt his fingers curling like a witch’s curse after the last practice three days prior, and at that time, he did not want to hear anything more from a composer with a cute name such as Frederic Chopsticks.

“Find something logical enough for _me_ ,” Papa calmly replied. “And no—since when were you an artist?”

“Con artist,” Lachesis snickered from the sofa before yelping. “Papa, Eldie threw a cushion at my face! He wanted to _murder_ me!”

“Papa, I can’t go to practice because the stocks are falling.”

“Interesting. And what do you play piano with?”

“… Hands?” he stared at his father, dumbfounded.

“Perfect! Get in the car, son.”

Eldigan did his best to voice his feelings—through an exasperated sigh, in D major. Perhaps.

And now everything feels like coming back to bite him in the brain. Eldigan regrets something—he should have asked Sigurd when his blue-haired friend vented that he was absolutely ‘brain-fucked’.

“It’s math,” at that time, he deadpanned.

“And exactly why my mind is no longer virgin,” Sigurd nodded. He patted his blue-haired friend in a sympathetic manner, noticing how forlorn the older Chalphy was. The last time Sigurd had such expression, it was when Ethlyn, agreeing with Lachesis, stated that his fringes looked like a horse mane.

“As if it was ever,” Quan snorted.

“This is my brain, not a smoothie,” Sigurd sulked. “And it’s still mine.”

Quan sighed.

“Eldieee!” Sigurd’s cheery voice feels like a total betrayal of the sorrowful atmosphere which still engulfs the entire Nordion household. Sigurd dresses casually as always—t-shirt and chino pants that it will be more than understandable if he got mistaken as a college kid. Quan has earth-colored military-style shirt on him, topped with a plaid outerwear.

“Got your wallet?” he asks mindlessly, trying to subdue the doubts which emerge suddenly.

“We can definitely treat you,” Sigurd, understandingly, pats his shoulder.

“No, Mr. Chalphy—in case they card you,” Eldigan returns the line, tempted to mess with him.

“Ass,” Sigurd mutters begrudgingly. “How are you, Lachesis?”

Lachesis does not move from the sofa, still hugging on the big cushion. She simply tilts her head to look at him, giving a solemn nod with a dry smile. “Hi, Siggy.”

“Oh, man,” Sigurd says. “Is she still…”

“Well…” Eldigan cuts in, shrugging.

“And you,” Quan, who maintains silence because Sigurd did all the greetings, chimes in. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you. And you?”

“Ass,” Quan repeats what Sigurd said in the same manner. “I’m serious here, Eldie.”

“It’s textbook English.”

“Saying ‘oh no, I’m totally not and in fact I want to cry’ is English too,” Quan shakes his head. “Well?”

“Oh no, I’m totally not and in fact I want to cry,” Eldigan repeats with a flat tone.

“Ass,” Lachesis mutters from the sofa, earning finger guns from Sigurd. “Take him out. He’s brooding.”

“I have Ethlyn,” Quan replies.

“… Ass,” Lachesis sighs. “Why are grown men so dumb?”

Eldigan yields anyway, leading his friends outside after telling Conrad that if Lachesis maintains that hollow expression until past midnight and still refusing to eat, he has granted full permission to order any restaurant she wants or throw a grenade against the TV because she might have been brainwashed. Either way, Conrad’s wife Sally-Anne reassures him to make Lachesis feel as comfortable as possible, and that he, too, can call Conrad at any given hour if he cannot drive.

Eldigan feels so guilty when Lachesis shoots him a warning look, but that guilt quickly dissolves into a puddle of… annoyance when Sigurd and Quan hauls him into the passenger seat of Quan’s sedan. “What in the _fucking_ world of extinct dinosaurs under _bastard_ meteor hails?”

“You road-raged and now you cussed?” Sigurd looks at him.

“Of course. Why am I being chaperoned? I can drive, _sweetheart._ ”

“Aww, that’s what he said,” Sigurd tries to dissipate Eldigan’s anger, earning the latter’s sullen look.

“Because the front passenger seat is Ethlyn’s throne,” Quan purposefully musters a flat tone to respond to Eldigan’s indignant one as he moves to reach for the driver’s seat. “Now be good, Eldigan Nordion.”

“Be Eldiegood,” Sigurd nods.

“Not another word. This is kidnapping,” Eldigan sours, hammering his elbow against Sigurd’s ribs.

“We just want you to feel Eldiegreat,” Sigurd coughs.

“Eldigan?”

“What, Ethlyn, want to fight as well?”

“If you maim my brother, I’ll _mutilate_ you,” the younger Chalphy smiles. “Be Eldiegooder.”

Eldigan surrenders, begrudgingly shuts his mouth anyway. Quan’s radio plays familiar songs—songs they used to love to bang loudly in college, songs they would play until the decibel measurement could even deafen a bat, songs he would play too when he became Eldiegentle because of a first heartbreak. Sigurd occasionally sings the lyrics, nudging him to sing along while Ethlyn and Quan humor him with what can be called as ‘weird shit we heard in fast food joints’.

“Come on, Eldie,” Sigurd finally relents, dropping off the goofy act as the car makes another turn. “It’s alright. Grieve with us. We are here out of goodwill and concern.”

“Well,” Eldigan starts, prompting Quan to quickly kill his radio, making Ethlyn halt her another story, as well as silencing Sigurd right away. This is it, right?—he thinks, eying his friends one by one from his seat. This is one of those movie instances where he will pour his heart out, end it with some ugly sobbing and then his friends will say something gold—yet touching at the same time—before hugging him. Right, this should be it. What are they again, a party of Teletubbies?

“We are here,” Quan says. “I can’t turn around, though—I’m driving.”

“Keep doing that, babe,” Ethlyn quickly says, darting a venomous look at Sigurd. “Not another joke.”

“That’s what she said,” Quan mouths, yelping because Ethlyn pinches his earlobe.

“… Yeah. Well,” Eldigan clears his throat. “Who still made a mixtape in this day and age?”

Quan shares another look with Ethlyn while Sigurd shoots a concerned look at him. Eldigan sits straight still with folded arms and flat expression, returning the stares he receives. “What?” he says, blankly fishing the phone out of his pocket, making a quick text to ask if Lachesis wants food.

“This is concerning indeed,” Quan hits the brake, expecting the blond-haired friend will definitely say something. But Eldigan merely returns his phone into his jeans pocket, giving another innocent but blank look he darts at his friends. “Eldie…”

Sigurd clutches on him. Eldigan scoots away uneasily, but his blue-haired friend plants his hands on his shoulders, giving him little to no choice but facing the older Chalphy back now. “Eldie. Listen to me,” he says. “Please, by God—I don’t know how to put it, but… be sad.”

“Yes,” Quan echoes from the driver’s seat. “This is unhealthy. You are unhealthy being like this.”

“I poop well, though.”

“… Ass,” Ethlyn mutters.

“That’s where it came out!”

“ELDIGAN HEZUL NORDION!”

He gulps. And the pink-haired lady that is now Quan’s girlfriend huffs. “What can we do for you?” she asks, her tone is almost pleading that it breaks his heart hearing her like that. It is as if she is kneeling, beseeching him. Like Lachesis when his sister tried stopping him from hitting the nurse who put defibrillator on Papa—the very same nurse who tried bringing Papa back… and failed.

He dislikes this. He does not like the tone Ethlyn used on him—and no, not when she called his full name like that. He recalls Lachesis’ hollow look back home. He recalls Lachesis’ pleas for him to calm down, at the hospital seconds after they pronounced Papa’s death. He recalls the Lady with Beautiful Legs in Pencil Skirt who backed away when he let his rawness spoke—that he wanted to punch something… someone… instead of actually helping her.

Well, he would, and he did want. But first of all, punching something.

“Eldie,” the younger Chalphy calls again, using the endearing nickname the way he is known in the family. Her lips are tight and her eyes look dark that for a moment, he feels so guilty.

“Ethlyn,” he responds. “Ethlyn Chalphy, Esquire. What’s wrong, Little Sigurd?”

“Let’s just get the food first,” Sigurd cuts in. “You have the privilege of an emperor today, Eldie. Decide what we should eat? We’ll just take you anywhere you want. What do you want to eat? We can grab some fresh juice too, I bet. I almost forgot your favorite fruit—orange, like the gym juice? Or…”

Eldigan looks at his hands, recalling the kind Madam Pencil Skirt with utmost compassion who gave him ginger ale and cleaned the sauce off his chicken wings. Strangely he did feel a bit refreshed, anyway, perhaps the ginger ale has that wondrous effect—or that she is a witch, but based on his knowledge, dumb men of the past hated smart women of the past so much that they burned a bunch just because half did not know how medicine worked while half did not know that blacksmithing or metal-forging contained chemical reactions. Or not knowing how uteri worked. Either way, the women got burnt, and Madam Pencil Skirt was right that the ginger ale helped with his digestive system.

Eldigan Nordion, Papa’s pride, a kickboxer practitioner of twenty years at his prime age of twenty-six who loves Felix Mendelssohn more than Frederic Chopsticks—Chopin—and thinks that Sergei Prokofiev totally could pass as a deadlift guy—is proud of his latest achievement…

… Eating food?

Lachesis said he should be. He did not say it took a beautiful stranger to help him with his food…

“Eh,” he says. _HHHHRRRGHHH_ —the lion within him growls in discreet like the chained beast that it is. He wonders—even if he wants to cry, his tears will not come out, anyway—it’s as if he exhausted his soul at that hospital room. And really—oh, this casual blazer is black? He did not even notice. He hardly even noticed that things come in color as well.

“Eldie?” Sigurd calls again, gentler this time.

“Ginger ale,” he blurts.

“Alright, let’s find a place which serves ginger ale,” Quan quickly takes control, shifting his voice into a cheery tone. “And with what?”

He pauses. _With what?_ —Quan asked. He glances outside—neon lights and billboards blink before him, with vehicles around them speeding. People at the sides of the street their car passes by look so merry and cheerful, with some couples holding hands and even kiss. _Saturday, alright,_ he mutters, suddenly feeling his stomach tight. Saturday. The day they buried Papa.

“Stop here,” he says.

“Awh, yiss,” Sigurd balls his fist. “You know this place?”

“No,” he deadpans.

_One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand…_

“It’s okay, we’ll find something nice, I’m sure,” Ethlyn quickly responds. Eldigan wanted to stop, anyway, and that is a good start. So everything is going to be better, right?

“Mm-hmm,” the blond-haired Nordion heir responds. Why is it yellowish-dark so suddenly?

_Lord God, he’s gone so fast—_

“Oookay. Wanna try that one?” Sigurd cheerfully opens the passenger door, gesturing him to come out.

_Breathe, Papa!!_

“Mmmm.”

_Eldie, you can’t hit a nurse!_

“Eldie?”

_Step aside, Lachesis—_

“Mmmh—“

He tears himself from his friends, running to reach the bushes around some building he does not register at this point. He does not even know what he just hit—gum? Wild weeds? Who cares, though. Who cares—

“Eldie!”

He does not care. At least his stomach does not, because it spins and somersaults repeatedly until his insides feel like being mixed in a blender. He throws his head, clutching on his blond strands. People about to enter the building glance at him, muttering expressions of disgust. He forces an apologetic smile, ready with an explanation— _I’m sorry, I’m not feeling too well tonight, I—_

“Yuck. Probably drunk.”

 _No_ , _this time I am not,_ _I swear—_ he thinks as he crouches down.

 _EEEEEEEUUUUURRRG_ —his stomach says.

Eldigan Nordion, twenty-six, Papa’s pride and joy, is violently vomiting near a night club on a Saturday night. Papa also got buried on a Saturday night, though, but the clubbers do not know about it for sure.

* * *

 

She grabs her phone when it rings for the tenth time. Sighing, she forces herself to scoot around the bed, finding her remote control getting stuck under one of her pillows. Monotonously killing her own TV, she picks up without even bothering to check who that is. Well, she figures, if she has successfully dodged the phone for nine times, perhaps she could give credit to one determined soul who managed to make the tenth call, anyway.

Yes, yes, determined, pestering—what is the difference?

“Hello, I’m Grahnye de Brún and you have reached my voice mail. Leave your message after the beep!” she mutters on the phone. _Creative, Grahnye,_ she thinks. What a joke. That is supposed to sound like a machine, not _Hi, I’m Grahnye and welcome to my crib._

“Grahnye?”

She sighs. She knows who that is. And this is not even a crib—this is a capsizing boat. Looking around her own bed she can see the remnants of savagery committed there—four instant ramen noodle packs, a paper plate because suddenly she had this urge to eat two cake slices at the same time. Of course she also had the urge to murder her boss, but that is not the point and we are not talking about that.

… Alright, now we are talking about that.

Grahnye lies still. She has been operating autopilot after returning from the office that day. At first it was heavenly, of course, waking up at ten, watching cartoons, wondering how many physicians getting the urge to fistfight the cartoon characters for constantly defying science. Eating leftover cakes also felt great… at least until she realized her fridge was almost empty, and that cake was probably a week-old, potentially giving her diarrhea.

But who cares again? She was hospitalized and her office did not. Her boss did not. Her asshole coworker did not. By giving herself diarrhea, perhaps she has done herself a favor—bestowing the virtue of being sick. What if she packs the evidence to send Elliot?

“Gross,” she mutters. “What happened to me? I’m a woman of God.”

 _God of disappointment and war,_ she thinks sadly. Sobbing for days, lying in nothing but old pajamas or underwear do not exude the image of a professional career woman. Those movies? They are lying—or so she thought. Where is another emotionally-dysfunctional person to sleep with like in those movies? None, right? See, those movies are lying—

“… Grahnye, dear, I know you are there.”

“No, I am not—shit,” she fumes. “Mom?”

“Are you alright?” the voice from the other side of the line speaks. “I’ve been wanting to check up on you since you got hospitalized. How are you feeling now?”

 _Destroyed._ “Great!” she replies. “Bye Mom, need to work.”

“No.”

“Mom?”                                                                         

“Who brought a cat to the office?”

Grahnye glances outside, finding the handsome-but half-dead programmer that is her apartment neighbor with ungodly working hours waving at her while trying to get his cat off the window. _Nice, there’s a cute guy living nearby and he saw me in pajamas. How am I still fucking alive?_

“Service kitty, Mom.”

“And who delivered milk with a bicycle bell to the office?”

Grahnye looks outside, definitely finding the milk boy delivering for the elderly couple whose house face her apartment. She sighs again. “Yes, Mom, I got fired.”

“What?”

“Love you, smooch.” She quickly cuts the line, throwing her phone under the pillow, imagining herself suffocating Elliot—and probably Chagall. Slow but sure, yet painful. _You like that, huh? You like that?_ Turning on the TV one more time, she tries to concentrate on what’s playing there, finding that words pass her like fleeting dream that she begins to sincerely question her own coherence at everything—why do these people speak foreign language all of a sudden? Also, is that a news anchor or a lobster?

Her hand digs into nothingness, making her to look down. Darn, she ate all the chips already. Let’s see what else her fridge has that she can take to instantly kill her—ah, soy milk! Let’s put some beer in it! … Oh, the soy milk is expired. Now _that_ can kill.

Grahnye de Brún, twenty-five, and allegedly contemplated to die by soy milk, returns to her bed, passing the mirror from her vanity table by the corner. Her eyebrows twitch upon seeing her own reflection—who is this again, another lobster? And by God, her bed has never been _this_ messy before. Not only that, a regular Grahnye on a regular day detests messy bed. She does not care what those hipsters with camera say about aesthetic feature and whatnot—messy bed is ugly, because the first thing she wants after returning home is to relax, not having to clean the mess she left off.

Home. There’s rent needing paid. Fridge that needs refilling. Car which needs a repair shop.

 _Grahnye, what happened?—_ She reads the text her mother sent her. Her mind races again. Perhaps she should go back home to Leonster. To the countryside of Leonster like Elliot brazenly suggested. Chagall said she isn’t fitting to be here, anyway. Out of place forever, huh—in society where she feels like nobody wants her, where she is under the impression of awkwardness no matter what she tries.

Fired, fired, fired…

Grahnye peeks on her phone once again. Will that make Elliot happy, if she decides to return to Leonster? Does she _want_ to make Elliot happy? Definitely not. But does staying sound like a good option? Not really. And her parents back then were pretty adamant about her living on her own, knowing well what that body can and cannot do. Does she want to make her parents happy? Yes—yes, sure, yes. But this way? Probably not. And shit—why must her parents’ happiness related to Elliot’s happiness? No way. She is not going to accept _That’s what I said_ from either Elliot or her parents. She is twenty-five.

Twenty-five, broke, fired, frail, ugly—

She drags herself into the bathroom, turning on the shower, throwing her clothes into a basket. The sensation of warm water pouring over her feels healing a little bit—if only she is not sobbing so hard that the water gets into her eyes and mouth. Her throat is burning a little, but by the time she applies some shampoo over her hair, her head begins to clear. The TV sound from the outside can be heard faintly in the bathroom, and she realizes nobody speaks in foreign language there—it’s English, pure English, and definitely, nobody there is talking about lobsters. Or looking like one too, she bets.

She rinses, covering herself with a towel. Now that feels nice. Feels nice. Especially when her hairdryer begins to work for her. A mass of soft wavy brown hair sprawls, framing her face, creating a spectacular view even if she is to say so herself—from what she sees in the mirror. _I’m not ugly,_ she thinks, beginning to apply a primer on her face, followed by other usual stuff—foundation, concealer… some color on her lips make a difference because she is no longer the pathetic girl in pajamas in the afternoon. And let’s get that tropical Sabrina-style sundress with Princess Jasmine-look-a-like sleeves.  This isn’t what she typically wears, though—but one does not get fired often, nor does one wear pajamas until four PM in the afternoon, grossly sobbing after snacking like the world is going to end tomorrow. And one does not typically imitate an answering machine to avoid talking to her mother as well… right?

 _It’s just groceries,_ her conscience says.

 _Yeah, and so what?_ —Her other side argues. The Devil be damned, the Devil always wins, though. Hell has neon tiles and infinite margarita supplies called Vengeance Juice—she prefers it than the Heaven because to be there she has to be angelic-level nice including forgiving Elliot and Chagall. For now, at least, she’d rather take time down there dancing with condemned dictators, probably.

She grabs her things. Before she goes out, however, she decides to make a change. First thing first her windows need to be closed, so…

“Hello,” she casually waves at her half-dead yet handsome programmer, whose cat perching on his shoulders as he faces a computer. He saw her in pajamas? Now she’ll make sure it is not his first and last impression of her. The programmer turns around. His cat slips onto the floor, with him dropping a bottle of soda he has on his desk.

She grins. And the hollow feeling returns, making her bite back her lips as she leaves the house—she needs a fruitful plan. Soon.


	5. Please?

He slams his car door by the time he arrives at a parking lot. There it is again—the eruption which boils deep in his chest like a flaming volcano. … Perhaps not the best analogy, anyway, considering volcano is already blazing—technically.

Eldigan throws a plastic bag into his front passenger seat, imagining it as some standing-sandbag at the gym he regularly uses to practice throwing and grappling. Saturday night his friends had come up with the best idea they _thought_ could help him—no, not the nostalgia-inducing mixtape Quan made, neither one of Ethlyn’s fast food jokes. And nor even Sigurd’s grimacing and literally nearly hauling him over his own shoulders to carry him back into the car ever could.

They asked him to what—grieve, right? Well, he is now—subduing, grappling, and then throwing a small plastic bag like an overpowered opponent. And better than that, even, this opponent will not even tap the mattress or yell for being in pain as his hand conveniently squeezes on it. A faint cracking sound stops him, however, and Eldigan looks down, sighing. He stops abusing the plastic bag. Rolling up his window, he looks at it with such regretful gaze as if he just picked a fight with a child.

They did not have a Saturday night-out.

Perhaps it was the first time to ever happen—to childhood and second childhood—college, as Sigurd would say, the trio scheduled their hangouts and would always be there to realize the plan. When they were kids, parents and in his case, Conrad—would wake them up or remind them when they had one of those routine bros-day. Then Ethlyn began tagging along by the time Sigurd was in his fourth year with Eldigan and Quan and she was a sophomore. At first she vehemently asked him to bring her for skateboarding. When she said she wanted to be cool, Sigurd did not contest—he knew what it felt to be uncool, because his other BFF—bros-for-forever—were some of the coolest kids at the block. And Ethlyn proved that she was indeed cool by flooring Quan on the spot... literally, as well, considering her skateboard hit Quan when she made a loop and he approached to ask for a number.

Of course they are not literally the coolest kids at the block. Heck, they don’t even live in the same neighborhood—they scatter around the city, and only Fate was kind enough to have them united at the same academy with private elementary-to-high schools the trio happened to go to. Of course the teachers were rather strict as it was a blend of a private elite school with religious background, but Eldigan covered Sigurd’s ass when he accidentally butt-butted the priest slash math teacher in class, and Quan took turn covering his because he climbed up the school gate for arriving late while Sigurd diverted the security guard’s attention by attempting to get a rise out of Arvis.

Sigurd did not anticipate that the red-haired Velthomer firstborn to be wearing contact lenses. While Arvis recovered because Sigurd—allegedly—dunked him with a basket ball across the forehead, Eldigan slipped behind the gate, beautifully tearing his uniform pants in the process.

At that time he was so proud to be Papa Nordion’s son. Papa ran his household like a company, anyway—he should know how to treat everything like… business. Like the calm, calculating professional demeanor demanded of him as a Nordion son—eldest son, too. The way Papa hardly ever hugged and asked him to present his plan whenever he proposed a family outing with Lachesis. The way he would type a proposal outline—at age sixteen, too, trying to convince Papa why it would be nice to take the family out for a summer picnic at a waterpark.

“We’re seeing a botanical garden,” Sigurd said on the last day of school before summer holiday started. “Sorry, Eldie. Can’t hangout with you until like, next week.”

“But next week I have practice,” he grumbled. “And the week after we have belt rank test.”

“Yeah. Two weeks from now it will be hell,” Sigurd grinned. “And then…”

“Oh, right—I have cram school too,” Eldigan muttered under his breath. “And oral French test.”

“Oral.”

“Shut up, what are you, five?”

“Sixteen.”

Eldigan rolled his eyes, trying to approach another person. He decided to stay away from Arvis because the red-haired Velthomer firstborn was clearly unhappy after the gate-jumping incident—Gate-gate, Sigurd suggested, and he was thankful Quan smacked the blue-haired kid from the back of his head because he seriously contemplated it just five seconds prior—with a cactus. Approaching the fiery Ayra Isaach who definitely exuded a cooler-than-cool-and-definitely-cooler-than-you aura, even the coolest girl at school bulged her eyes upon hearing what he asked.

“You need to—what, present a _paper_ to your own dad on why he should take you and your sister to a waterpark?” she said. “Look, I know you are dumb, but I don’t expect you to be _this_ dumb.”

“It’s Sigurd, you mistook me for someone else.”

“Doesn’t matter. You are a man.”

“Okay, fair point,” Eldigan nodded. “So, you never?”

“Of course, Eldigan. Really, sorry for saying this— _what_ even is your dad?”

 _A lion,_ he thought. “Great question. I wish I knew,” he sighed. “Okay, fill me in. What is the best point to argue that you need to chill at the waterpark during summer?”

“… Because it’s hot?” the black-haired cool girl replied. “Eldigan, please. Not even Lex is like this. And you know he is supposed to be dumber than you.”

“Everyone knows it’s hot, Ayra. I need a more viable argument,” Eldigan responded.

“Right. Want honesty, or frankness?”

“Is there a difference?” Eldigan sat back in awe. Cool girls were so cool indeed.

“There is. Frankness is that I think your dad is a massive dick. Honesty is that I think your dad is a dick,” Ayra mumbled. When Eldigan could only stand appalled, she sighed, darting a quick glance at Eldigan’s paper. “Alright—dehydration, skin cancer.”

“That’s a new level of hot,” Eldigan quickly scribbled on the paper. “What else?”

“We are kids. We are growing. And technically speaking, it’s not like _he_ can’t be there to use the waterpark as well. I mean—really, are we doing this?”

Eldigan did not reply and Ayra bought him an ice cream that day. With the ice cream, however, he asked if Ethlyn could sew his pants back and she would have the ice cream, along for his lunches for the next three days. Ethlyn grinned because Eldigan bought the nicest burgers, anyway—but he flinched when the pink-haired girl was so peppy when she said it was a pleasure doing business with him.

Eldigan kicked a trashcan after that. He thought he was simply compensating for a help he asked from a friend, and definitely he would not ask Sigurd to sew his pants because he knew Sigurd was no better than he was at it. Quan the brain knew all the theories about what sewing was supposed to be like, but after five minutes of being unable to join a thread with a needle, out of good faith Eldigan suggested Quan might want some eye checkup, while Quan froze like his dignity was being castrated on the spot.

“You want me to sew? Why? Because I’m a girl?” Ayra already shot him before he asked.

“Uh. Sorry. It’s just—I can’t sew,” he replied courteously.

“Yeah? Then _learn_ , testosterone sack.”

Eldigan wished he could take everything back and probably kneel before Ayra too while he was at it. He praised Ayra sincerely for saying testosterone, though—completely tipping his figurative hat off to her because… oh, dear Lord, even his best friend still snickered at the mention of ‘oral’ while Quan cringed at ‘tuba fallopi’. “That’s the coolest tube instrument I’ve ever heard. What’s the range again, something like trombone or different?” he had asked, and had Eldigan did not detect innocence at all in him, he would so love to throw Quan off some sudden cliff he created in his mind while wishing the entire school would burn, causing massive endemic amnesia so people would wake up in the next day being completely new person and did not recognize each other, which would make a grand bonus.

Eldigan exhales, gripping the steering wheel. He has not even started the machine yet; the key is still hanging where it should be. Again he looks at the small plastic bag he was close to maiming—and to the fateful Saturday night after what supposed to be bros-plus-one hangout night.

He vomited. And he did not know what was worse—pretty girls in dresses and makeup thinking he was an asshole drunkard or for his friend to nearly haul him over his shoulder like a sack. Or Ethlyn running out of the car because she was worried about him. Or him repaying her kindness by letting out a run against her dress. Or Quan taking off his plaid shirt outerwear because Ethlyn went behind the bushes to strip and leave that dress in a bin. Or nobody saying anything afterwards—not even Quan’s radio. And suddenly he missed the cringey-but-nostalgic mixtape. He missed the weird fast food stories. He missed Sigurd making a hundred puns out of his name. He even wished Ethlyn would chew him out, no, _slap_ him, but she was understanding enough to keep her mouth shut, which made him feel even worse.

“You are unwell,” she said. “You should take care of yourself, Eldie.”

He could not find a word to contest her, for sure. She was right. His friends were right about him _not_ being right. But if only it was that easy, though. He wished he could do it Lachesis-way—sobbing, being conveniently depressed—or so he thought—by curling in bed until time is nothing but a concept from a fleeting world. His world is fleeting, anyway—his reality begins to dissociate. Papa isn’t there to rule, govern, and dictate like a lion king—he is that new lion, and he behaves worse than a cub. Without Papa’s strong, authoritative presence, something feels lost. And he wants to admit it or not, he is afraid.

“I’m driving you to the hospital,” Quan broke the awkward silence between them.

“No, I don’t—“ he wanted to protest, but Sigurd shook his head.

“Please, Eldigan. Be Eldiekind to yourself.”

Part of him was relieved hearing the pun was back. Another part of him was annoyed. _Come on, get angry at me,_ the lion in him growled desperately. _Aren’t you all frustrated by me?! Even I am frustrated by me. This is disgusting. Just like Ethlyn’s dress that I ruined._

“I promise I’ll go by myself—um, Tuesday, perhaps.”

“That is too long,” Quan frowned. “How are we sure you’ll be okay on Sunday and Monday?”

“I’m not going anywhere Sunday so I can rest. And uh—I cannot skip a Monday,” he reasoned. “And it’s too late for that. If you guys wait for me, it will be too cold for Ethlyn to be only in your shirt.”

He expected Quan to let his tongue slip and made another innuendo joke, but the Leonster heir did not. When they returned him back home, he promised to send something for Ethlyn as an apology gesture.

“Don’t,” the younger Chalphy quickly halted him. “First of all, don’t treat us like you do your business associates, Eldigan Hezul Nordion.” The usage of his full name alone was enough to make him see that Ethlyn was serious, so he did not argue. “Second, please, get help. If we can’t help, perhaps someone else can. Please, Eldie—process this. And not only for you, but also for the entire household.”

“Someone else. Like who?”

“… A therapist?”

Eldigan scoffed. But Ethlyn looked him dead in the eyes that he faintly promised her to _try_. And Quan still did not make some innuendo comment about Ethlyn when his friends returned to the car—with Ethlyn wrapping the plaid shirt like some short, sexy dress. The moment the car was out of his driveway, Eldigan almost pulled his hair out if Lachesis did not ask if he had food.

He said he did. And around midnight, he was in the bathroom, vomiting again.

Eldigan hears a honk from behind. He gasps, noticing the red light has changed color. Something in him demands to roll up the window again for a glorious road rage. Another part of him begs for him to be rational, however—so he listens to that part, merely thinking he is just being fair considering it’s been two weeks since he ignored his own rationality, anyway—

_Don’t treat us like you do your business associates, Eldigan._

Eldigan grips his steering wheel as he pulls aside. Perhaps he should stop treating his mind like one, too. If only Papa would professionally tell him not to do that, though—

Eldigan kills the machine, sparing the last glance on the plastic bag before he takes the ignition key out. _Papa is dead,_ he thinks, ruffling his mane. Grabbing a mineral water bottle nearby, he gulps. Cold sweat falls on him, and he reminds himself that again, he skipped meals. And—right, he promised Quan and Sigurd to come with a hiring plan while Ethlyn is supposed to be reading his emails about the trust fund.

What trust fund? He simply types the amount he is supposed to be left with, and several associations or causes Papa was involved in before dying. Ethlyn might frown because the email is far from professional which would require her to call him, but he was already proud to even compose that in the morning, before… before checking himself in a hospital for a checkup and examination.

“Describe your symptoms, please?” the internist had asked.

“You have my urine and everything, and…”

“Symptoms?”

He surrendered.

“Alright. I’ll need to…” the internist gestured at him as she put back her stethoscope.

“Don’t undress me. I’m already naked.”

“I’m—sorry?”

“I’ve told you everything. Yes, yes—I barely had food, I ate and breathed alcohol, I was working—no, grieving—no, actually… alright, I had chips and everything spicy and…”

“Spicy like what? Can you describe your diet for the past week at least?”

“… I don’t recall, Doctor,” he muttered. “I don’t even—I know it was spicy. But I didn’t... I mean…”

He got his meds and a menu recommendation to tame his gastro-intestinal system, anyway. And the doctor had kindly equipped him with a timetable of available dieticians as well as therapists. When he recognized the name as someone who treated alcoholics, however, he crumpled the paper into the bin.

_I am not alcoholic. I just need…_

His friends talk about grieving.

 _… Working,_ he concludes, determined to get in touch with Ethlyn later.

Eldigan sighs. He nearly destroyed the prescribed medicine he just got.

 _Not again,_ he thinks, looking at his own hands. Are those only destined to break? Come on, he is the new lion. How come the Nordion household’s new head is so weak-willed like this? Come on—

“I need a drink,” he ponders. Looking at the plastic bag with prescribed medicine inside, he holds up his hands signifying a surrender. “Not alcoholic. Yeah—juices, perhaps. What’s Sigurd’s brand back then?”

 _Nothing salty, nothing spicy, nothing sour at least for a week so we can assess you back,_ the internist’s diagnose clouds his mind. And Eldigan is close to let out another _HRRRRHHH DARN IT_ if the bar did not nearly hit his bonnet because he has to take a ticket. Begrudgingly he does, and the powerful SUV makes a smooth entrance into the grocery store’s parking lot.

“Now what can I even eat when I already don’t even have the appetite to,” he mutters, taking a basket while pocketing the internist’s notes to guide his shopping. And—oh, right, he must tell Conrad and Sally-Anne about his diet too. Or perhaps he shouldn’t. A Nordion lion isn’t some weak-ass Barbie needing the gentle care of the chaperoning butlers, right?

“Barbie isn’t weak!” suddenly he recalls Lachesis’ displeased tone years ago. “She endures whirlwind romance with Kent and still she smiles and keeps her faith in men? You call that weak?”

“Alright—alright, Sissi, I got it—hold on, since when was Barbie armed with a butterfly knife?!”

“Since I made her.”

Eldigan looks at the notes again. _Screw this,_ he thinks. He’s got so many questions and nothing at the same time. Perhaps it’s better if they just straight up tell him what to eat so he can prepare himself eating the same thing over and over again for at least a week. And oh, a can of mackerel sardines. The internist did not even specifically say about sardines. Tomatoes are not salty or sour, aren’t they? They are good. Only the miserable ones are salty and sour—like him.

He is about to reach for the can when another hand is close to grab it before his face.

“Stupid tall shelf.”

Eldigan cocks an eyebrow. There is a lady—a lady with beautiful wavy brown hair and open-shoulder sundress literally jumping on her toes to get the can. “Um…”

“Oooh, haha, I’m sorry. It’s hard to decide what to buy when you got fired, you know? I mean…” Eldigan watches as the lady literally slaps herself across the face. “Why must sardines be placed so far away like this?! It’s a can of sardines, not my hopes and dreams! What do they have under here, um… oh, flours. I don’t even get how the people who work here arrange the goods, but, eh, good combination, anyway. I’ll just eat the flours. I mean—I mean technically you can bake breads by hand, right? Should have saved money than going to a bakery. I mean—oh, _fuck_ —no, uh, sorry. You want that one? I’ll find a ladder.”

“You want this?”

“Yes, thank you!! Uhh—wait, you haven’t even given me. Uh—do you?” she lifts her head, cursing herself back and forth because of the sudden incoherence she blurted out to the stranger. Oh, perhaps she needs to process… anger. Right. Since technically murdering Chagall and Elliot is illegal, she should see other means, anyway.

“No problem, Miss. I can just get another one,” Eldigan mutters, still baffled but… _entertained_ , somehow.

“Yeah. And I just need this uh… detergent. Don’t worry, I’m not going to eat it. Or drink it. Hahaha. What a miserable way to commit suicide. If I want to die, I should eat Elliot’s flesh, though—must be contagious like the virus he is. Oh, never mind, you don’t know Elliot. And don’t worry, he’s not an ex. I mean—oh, dear God. I’m so sorry. W-what has gotten into me, anyway… I’m… sorry…”

Eldigan watches as she _kicks_ a shelf.

“I can’t even take this detergent bag easily. It got stuck! I can’t even open doors smoothly! I can’t even beat an annoying coworker with an umbrella! I can’t even—aaah!” she gasps when a detergent bag from one of the upper shelf crashes and falls. Eldigan makes a quick decision. In a split second he gets a hold of the lady’s shoulder, swaying her body so that she is sheltered behind him. “Oh, dear God,” the lady gasps again when the detergent bag is about to fall, but Eldigan focuses his eyes on the target and darts a hooking spin-kick to send it landing on a basket outside the shelf.

“Are you alright?”

“Y-yes. Why you… um…” she shyly walks closer to examine the bag. “Oh, it is intact!”

“I am glad,” the corner of his mouth twitches. Admittedly, one does not see a lady looking like she is so ready to fistfight a bunch of detergent bags; neither does one meet a cute lady in sundress and strapped heels casually kicking a grocery store’s shelf. But then again he never met a lady who looked like she was so thrown between guillotining him for being tall enough to reach the sardine can she could not _or_ thanking him profusely for giving her the sardine can she could not take. “May I check?”

“N-no. No, it’s alright—darn it,” the lady hisses when her heels slip that she dives into his hug instead. “Sorry! That truly is unplanned. Really though, nice shoulders— _height_ , but like, I’m alright, thank you.”

“Oh, it’s alright—actually I should be the one apologizing for being abrupt,” Eldigan hovers closer. “Are you really alright? I have a high-spirited sister who loves challenging activities back home. It’s become a habit to check on her—pardon,” out of reflex he gently takes her chin, tilting her face to look at him while half of his functioning brain screams _WHYYY, YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE A RATIONAL MAN_ because both have been info-dumping on each other like that.

“O-oh, is that so… you are a nice brother…” the lady responds, making a reflexive gesture herself like fixing a pair of glasses she isn’t even wearing. She is surprised that he touches her like that, but his touch is so gentle and respectful that it is hard not to… look back, even if only out of curiosity, anyway.

So she does. That very moment she looks up, meeting his eyes the moment they harbor in hers as well. Sure, her eyesight is bad. But every person has a profile, and there has to be something unforgettable from each of them even if the person changes clothes or something. And from such distance and angle, even without the glasses she can make the view before her—first of all, oh, yes, the tall, _handsome_ savior has mullet blond hair which ends reach his upper shoulders. Also, she is right, anyway—nice shoulders. Does he exercise? Must be a yes—look at the subtle- _something_ which says that he is well-built. And darn it, being this close she can attest this man has a refined taste—what is this nice cologne smell that isn’t overpowering as if the entire bottle wants to scream _I AM A MAN AND YOU GOTTA KNOW_ while chasing people with a bloodied axe? Such perfume even has its own class—it cannot be cheap. And… Lord God, she never thought that in this day and age—at least after seeing all those road rages and Elliot’s face—someone would still say _May I._

Eldigan clears his throat. Why is this face familiar? Of course, the hair is _magnificent_. And he totally does not mind a _lioness_ who looked like she was about to wage a death match against the entire grocery store. And—oh, hold on—

“Have we met before?” he asks courteously, taking a step back. The last thing he would want would be a lady frowning thinking he was a grade-A level creeper or a pickup artist. He hates to admit it, but she has the most beautiful brown hair in a human he ever witnessed so far. Perhaps they never met indeed. That can’t be a human being, is she a misguided angel or—

Eldigan snorts. And clears his throat when the lady looks at him. _What the fig am I thinking?_ But he quickly concludes he has something to celebrate—he censored his own cuss. Progress?

“Ah. You are familiar indeed!” she responds, reflexively opening her purse to take out a case from the inside. Eldigan witnesses that it is where she keeps her glasses in, and the moment the optical instrument is back to assist her face, he… gasps—with her as well.

“Ah, the good-looking diner!”

She gasps for the second time and he keeps his mouth shut at an instant.

 _I’m an idiot,_ he thinks, repeating it for noticing that—no, she is not wearing the torn pencil skirt he worships—but the sundress is cute, and those legs—well, he probably just found another deity to worship, anyway, if she decides to burn the skirt.

“Oh, sorry. I mean—your face is—distinctive,” the lady mutters, giving herself a correctional, voluntary head smack even before he manages to say anything.

“Dear Lord. I hope it’s not in a wanted poster or something,” he replies.

“Oh, no, no. Not many people rock that style,” again, her response is cool, delivered in a professional-style kind of tone which he can normally find in big offices, where the workers are half-dead but their professionalism is peerless. But the lady is very much not appearing half-dead to him—she actually has such soft, heart-shaped face and the beautiful curly brown hair reaching her breasts makes a splendid combination of a classical beauty. This is troubling, he muses, because he has never dealt with a princess who time-traveled prior. Did that explain why the lady was so angry at shelves and tripped in her shoes?

“I see. You’ve got a point—I’ve never seen a lady with a hair so beautiful like yours either,” he follows suit, nodding with a straight face. “I promise you, I’m not a creep. I went to a religious academy.”

 _Great, I truly am a fucking idiot,_ Eldigan voluntarily mirrors Madam Pencil Skirt with Beautiful Legs this time for giving himself a head smack.

“Oh my God, you are actually a semi-regular human being. I thought you were Superman!” she says, quickly clamming her mouth shut out of reflex. “Oh, sorry. I mean—I mean that kick just now…”

“Uh. I uh… I do kickboxing,” he mutters sheepishly. “A little bit. Anyway, Superman is bad. He does not even operate on a renewable energy because kryptonite is dangerous.”

“I know, right,” she sincerely balls her fist, bumping it with his palm out of reflex—a gesture which earns another eyebrow-quirking from him, but he is not… disliking it. “And I see! A little bit for like, how long?”

“Twenty… years?” he grins—alright, _winces_ , perhaps, unsure and awkward.

“Twenty years! Two decades!” she exclaims.

“Eh—right, 240 months, 7300 days,” he clears his throat, begging on his brain not to be dead yet.

“Oh, wow. Liar. You are Superman,” she chuckles, and he follows suit—awkwardly. “Shopping today?”

“Yeah. Just got back from the hospital and I thought—uh, snacks.”

“Really? God, me too—nearly a week.”

“Horrible. Must be troublesome, Miss.”

“I’m feeling better, though, and you, did you eat well since?” she nods sincerely.

“Definitely,” he nods back, but just his luck, his stomach… crows.

“Definitely not,” she teases, playfully pointing at his abdomen.

“Y-yeah,” he scratches his head. “I’m sorry about that. I’m trying, I promise.”

“Hmmm. Why don’t I take you to eat?” she announces. “You just got back from the hospital, anyway. You need a motivation for recovery. Come on, my treat! I know a good place around here. They have…”

“Ginger ale?” he quickly cuts in, and again, thinking if he can lock himself in the freezer after this. But bless her for not laughing or reacting like he is weird—she merely smiles and nods.

“Yes. And they have nice hotpot you can eat. We’ll just get you something mild but tasty anyway, I really understand—being deprived of _flavors_ is frustrating. Come? Let me thank you? Please?”

“… Again, huh,” he smiles faintly.

“W-well. You saved me thrice.”

“Thrice, Miss?” he gestures her to follow him, and with a quick snap, he unlocks his car, opening the front passenger seat for her. “Please. I promise—I’m not a murderer.”

“That won’t happen. I’m too poor to be mugged,” she shrugs, getting in and letting him close the door.

“I understand if you feel guarded because of—other reasons,” he ignites the machine. “So…”

“Uh is that…” she blinks because he just recited series of number to her.

“My plate number, yes. You can text a trusted person you are with me,” he nods sincerely. “So, where do we go from here? … Hmmm?”

She smiles, extending a hand to him. “I’m Gra—um, Giovanna.”

“And my name is…” his mind races. Those obituaries—no, no. He is not going to hear another condolence. He is not going to hear—or face—the fact about how _dead_ his father is. And there is something relieving—and liberating, if he can say so—in this lady who has no idea who he truly is or which bloodline he came from. “… Hezul. I am Hezul, Miss—eh, Giovanna.”

“Oh. Nice to meet you,” she smiles even kinder. “My, you sound like a knight or something.”

“I have a crusader ancestor,” he scratches his head. “I mean—yes, my name is kind of uncommon.”

“Oooh, I’m not begrudging that, really! Mine isn’t either…”

“I think Giovanna is pretty common. This means no disrespect, though,” he says, navigating the car with her direction. “That place over there?” _Good. On Saturday I vomited across the street from there._

“What? Gio—oh, yes, yes, of course. It’s Italian for Jane,” she gasps. _Darn it, I know he is cute—no, DASHING—but so is Hannibal Lecter and allegedly, Count Dracula. No, not Vlad Dracul, goshdangit._

“You are Italian?”

“Huh? Oh no, I’m not a lesbian—what?”

 _Oh, dear God,_ she thinks, when he slows down the car so he can laugh… conveniently. He _is_ dashing, she notes, that one is clear since day one. But now that he… chuckles—no, _laughs_ —dashing is an understatement, perhaps—because… because he is gorgeous when he smiles and looks sincerely happy like that. Of course she never expected a stranger to get all smiley-friendly, but when she met him at the diner, he looked so distraught and forlorn like he truly hoped there would be a misery anvil mysteriously dropping from the ceiling to hit him in the head. And when he was about to fight that young executive slash creeper, it was almost like he did that because he needed to evaporate something… while also wishing he would get beaten up badly so he could just—sleep and wake up days later.

“I mean,” she sighs.

“It’s alright. Sorry if that was too intrusive,” he smiles.

She blinks. God—this man is gorgeous and… polite? No way. You can’t have anything in this world. Please have a flaw. Like if you have a shitty music taste or being a fan of Marquis de Sade’s erotica. Really? A nice man who isn’t also a murderer and respectful of her? Can it be… ah, finally she meets an authentic human male instead of the clowns such as one she got to address as Elliot Heirhein! Perhaps the future isn’t in the nerd guys—it’s in softspoken men with uncommon names! “O-oh no, it’s alright! Uh, technically speaking, you are right, though—Jane is much more common than Giovanna. Uh, stop.”

“Is this it?” he pulls aside.

She nods.

“Alright ,” he chuckles. “… Actually, yes, let’s do this. If I can eat better this time, I’d be so happy.”

She takes him inside, securing a two-person table pretty secluded from the rest of the bigger tables meant to cater four people or more. “What do you want?” smiling, she shows the menu card to him, including an order note where they can just tick what they want with the provided pencil.

“I don’t know. You decide,” he replies earnestly. “I’ve never, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, okay. So… what did your doctor say? … Hmmm. Oh. I see… in a way, similar to what mine said. Alright, I’m getting us clear-broth with a lot of vegetables. Um, right, tofu. I get you beef tongue so the softer cuts will not burden your intestines. Is that okay? They will still give various sauces but don’t worry, I’ll taste it first and I’ll tell you what I think. If you want to dip, be my guest! If you think you overdo it, you can always wash the sauces off in my plate, and uh…”

 _He is still smiling,_ she thinks, feeling embarrassed out of a sudden.

“I thank you very much,” he nods. “I trust you.”

“O-okay. Um, here is the order,” she awkwardly hands the sheet to a waiter. “Sorry there, uh, Hezul. I hope you didn’t feel like I mothered you or anything. I’ve been there, really, so…”

“So you want to make sure other people who are experiencing it now get the assistance they need,” he cuts in. “Please don’t worry, Giovanna. If anything, I’m touched.”

“Oh, thank you. That’s so nice of you…”

“Are you kidding? That’s so nice of _you_ ,” he smiles faintly. “Ah, there they are. And what should I do?”

“Your first time?” she giggles. When he scratches his head, she picks up a pair of chopsticks and begins to boil the vegetables. “I’ll help us out so the next time you are proficient enough. Eh—no insult, but…”

“It’s alright. Really, I’m actually a simple guy,” he breaks a laughter. “If you excuse some stupidity.”

“Umm… not really. Technically I’m stupid too,” she chuckles awkwardly, noticing how sincere and curious he is when she keeps boiling and inserting the ingredients into the pot. He closely pays attention when she explains about the sauces like she is this teacher and he truly is some innocent kid who needs a lot to learn—and she is sure he is, because he asks questions and closely watches her eating. She only wishes that he wouldn’t have to do it so intensely because somehow his harboring gaze makes her shy, and she wonders if people ever told him how handsome he actually is.

Eldigan picks up the first bite and swallows it. Surge of energy begins to blossom from deep inside his body, and he is surprised that he can actually stomach it. It’s like the sorrowful cloud around him dissipates a little, and between the warm hotpot as well as the heart-warming scenery, he begins to notice things—like the color of her dress, and that she has beautiful brown-hazel eyes too, or that the restaurant has nice calming decoration that for the first time after Papa’s death, he does not actually feel suffocated being in the crowd. He steals a glance at her, silently conveying a deep gratitude that she is sincerely nice to him. He watches her picking up the food, diving it into his bowl like she understands for whatever reason he has never done that before, and doesn’t mind showing him the ropes. In between the bites he finds himself exchanging faint smiles with her, and he gestures at her to hand him the glasses when the lenses become foggy again because she has been sitting close to the pot. Wiping them clean with his own shirt, he smiles—gentler this time that he begins to worry if he did something wrong because it takes a while until she picks up the glasses he handed.

 _He is so nice,_ she thinks, quickly putting the glasses back on to check if—yes, he _is_ smiling at her, not to a ghost or something—and yes, she has let his hand idle longer than it should be. Smiling back, she tastes a sauce he is dipping a meat cut into, and shaking her head gently she helps him washing off the meat in her own bowl until it is safe enough for him to eat.

He finds himself—sweaty. And for that, he apologizes to her.

“It’s alright! That means your body is awake, right? Oxidation?”

“Oxi… _oh_ ,” he chuckles. “Forgive me. I’m still sweaty, after all.”

“Oh, no, no, don’t apologize! How long have you been not eating properly? Aww, Hezul, I’m sorry for sounding fussy, totally do not mean to do so—ah, is this why they called me grandma…”

“Giovanna, not another word," he stops her. “I think you are nice and I am thankful for what you do.”

“… Oh.”

“Right. Please allow me to pay for us both,” he smiles reassuringly, handing a card to the waiter.

 _That’s—_ she gulps, quickly averting her eyes so he does not know that she saw it. A Gold card. How unfair—lone diner is not only handsome and nice—he is also courteous and… rich.

Suddenly she wants to sob somehow. Totally out of her league. And in a whim she just had a playful thought that—that if he is willing, they could trade contact information. At least she could have a friend this way. Sincere friend. And she just got fired—right, why isn’t he asking why she is there at this hour? Him, she understands—he just got back from the hospital. But she…

“What’s the matter?” he asks gently when she grabs a ply of tissue.

“T-this one’s—too spicy,” she mutters, suddenly feeling gloomy because her own melancholia and depressive situation easily take control like that. Oh, Lordy, and she is supposed to be the one taking care of him and everything. And yet—

“Eat mine?” he passes his own bowl to her after scooping some more food from the pot. “You have been washing off the sauces for me. You need to eat, too.”

“So do you,” she murmurs. “Please—please promise that you at least try.”

“I do. After all, I’ll need to take my medicine,” he nods. “So…”

“P-please, take it. It’s your money after all. I mean…”

“And it’s your suggestion and everything. Giovanna, you have helped me a lot. Paying for the food that I am also eating is the least I can do,” he clasps his bowl into her grip. “Please.”

“I can’t actually eat that much,” she mutters, grabbing her purse and everything. “I—I forgot I need the bank transfer and uh… thanks again for the meal, Hezul. I sincerely hope you are well.”

“Can I at least drive you?”

“N-no. No need. It’s not dark yet anyway,” she hides her gaze from him. “Thank you. Thank you again, you are so nice and I really—appreciate it.”

“Can’t I get a...” he rubs his nose awkwardly. “… Contact, if you don’t mind, in case I have uh—question about—well, food?”

“I… I believe your doctor has uh… guidelines?”

“R-right. I forgot. My apologies. I hope you don’t find me intrusive…”

“N-not at all. Thank you again, I—gotta go.”

Eldigan sits still where he is. The hotpot is filling, and the herbal broth restores his strength. He clenches his fist, contemplating the phone he took out a moment ago. Gone she is. And he can only get a name—a pretty name befitting her, if he is to be honest. There’s something endearing about her, and he forces himself to contemplate whether it’s just because he is depressed-sorrowful-grieving or because…

 _But she is so kind,_ he thinks again.

Eldigan drills his fist into the thickness of his mane, regretting one thousand and back that she hurriedly slipped away like that— _Where did I go wrong? Did I offend her? Was I being intimidating and forceful?_

He sighs. She saved him twice, and he couldn’t even say it; neither can she accept it.

 _Giovanna,_ he repeats.

His shoulders slump, following his own descend into regret—his own shadow has scared him so much that for the sake of preserving his sanity from dealing with yet another well-wisher or being reminded that Papa Nordion is _very_ dead, he did not even use his actual name. Of course Hezul is his name too, but…

… But one does not get to meet a girl like that often. And she left without catching his actual name.

 _Giovanna,_ he carves it in his mind. Do they have mutual friends or something? He does not want to Google a woman, alright—it’s against everything he believes in even at his lowest, but… but what if he is just—just merely enquiring if someone in his circle knows her? That’s not the name he hears often.

 _So is Hezul,_ he contemplates again, feeling so full out of a sudden. 


	6. All is Well, Citation Needed

Her steps are more than staggered by the time she returns to her apartment. It feels even emptier than usual, and—bleak. The apartment is modest but it is well-ventilated, anyway—when she previewed it on-site, she instantly fell in love by how airy it was. The natural light source pleased her too, and with a bonus she quickly put her deposit.

She dumps two brown paper bags over the kitchen counter. The front door made quite a noise when she closed it.She sighs, pouring herself some water as she settles to sit down. Looking straight at the brown paper bags, what just happened dances through her mind.

 _What did I do,_ she thinks, setting her purse before her. _Oh, right, groceries…_

She opens her purse, trying to find a list so she can look at it again. She has always been a meticulous person, right? Then where is the darn list again? …. Oh, right, there is no list. Broke and as sure as a crumbling ground on how to proceed from there, her mind takes her back to the shopping prior—realizing that she pretty much went autopilot because… this is so unlike her. With or without paycheck, she is not the kind of person who just carelessly does things. There will be planned-something… no, everything—be it making a mental note or actual, literal note detailing what to wear for the week and even fold her clothes in that order. She is orderly—or as Elliot pointed out, _obsessed_ —but then again she believes Elliot is dumb and nothing he could think of her truly mattered. At least until he got her fired, though.

When her phone vibrates, she is prepared to pretend not hearing anything—or posing as her own answering machine again. But to her relief, it only vibrates once with the LED notification lamp beeping, so she gingerly reaches to check it.

 _An email,_ she ponders. From… “Quan?” the name escapes her lips smoothly. She remembers him. Quan Claus with the brown hair who went to the same university as her, the guy everyone dubbed as family man for being the so-called dad friend. The Quan who had always loved his brown vest probably too much that he wore it often, the Quan whose discovered the importance of neat outerwear and no longer came to classes like he just got trampled by a sheep colony while trying to race a jaguar ever since he got closer to the fun, socialite-heiress with a pink hair who would slap his back and told him how _messy_ he was. The girl two years his junior and also majored in law she only got to meet a couple of times shortly before they graduated.

Quan Claus, the one among a few rare folks who treated her pretty nicely. They met when she took one of those general classes pertaining insurance business because he needed that class as a requirement for one of his law classes. Quan Claus did not laugh when the majority of the class, filled with folks from finance and economics-related background, snickered as she dropped her books for running out of breath to climb the stairs. Instead, he politely approached to help her and glared when one of the kids at the backseat whispered she had to be faking it because he was handsome and nice, and because this kind of instance happened often.

“Wow, jerk,” the brown-haired law major said. “I’m Quan, though. Sorry about that.”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry. My classmates are jerks,” she shrugged. “Grahnye. I’m from the finance.”

“I’m the law,” Quan smiled before quickly clearing his throat. “I mean—I’m a law major.”

When the others doubted her because illness—and whatnot, they would say—hindered her from group activities, Quan maintained contacts with her. It was he who would forward any text pertaining invitation for an outing, for a study session, basically for whatever happened around the class without her. In return, she got to learn that despite his mature, dad-friend appearance, he could be quite clumsy while he understood that she was born that way—frail with a weak heart, which prompted her to turn down all those social invitations not because she hated them all. She learned that he was a sincere person too when it pertained friendships because despite her several—if not many times—declining Facebook invitations where everyone had a Facebook because it was hype, Quan would still forward those invitations and include her in their class activities. For the first time during her last months in school, she was genuinely happy to have a real friend, something she would not forget the way she unhesitatingly offered to tutor her brown-haired friend in insurance business.

“See, if you want to do this, you have to know your gun,” she said, passing a thick book under his inquiring eyes one fine day when they sat together for coffee. “A handbook for insurance agent, basically. Like, insurance business one-oh-one.”

“Oh, great. Fucking thank you,” Quan sighed. “How many days do I have with this one?”

“Nah, cool with me. Anytime before finals is fine.”

“Seriously? Wow, you are nice!”

Quan paid for their coffee, for their cheesecakes, and even for the fried noodle boxes he took home and she brought back to the dorm. But rather than receiving everything from him, at that time she was hopeful and beaming—for the first time, someone that was not her papers or teachers complimented her. Someone actually wanted to hangout with her. Someone wanted to include her in a community. And this compliment was not about her work ethos—it was not her smartness, her diligence, her meticulousness—him saying how nice she was felt like a testament of her character, and even years after they graduated, she cherished those little friendship moments with him.

“Travant is engaged,” she reads the email, digging into her brain cells trying to remember who Travant even is. Travant? The accounting guy—no, that’s Travis, she contemplates. Not that one. How about the guy whom people called the Silent Punisher for his habit of farting near a lecturer’s desk after a stressful class? Not that one either, that is a Trevor. Still, Travant-Who is having a bachelor’s party, inviting the people from that prolonged insurance-related class altogether. At least with the invitation perching in Quan’s inbox, the more reason for her to anticipate an accidental reunion.

Her fingers pause as she begins composing the reply email for Quan.

 _I don’t even know who he is,_ she types. _No, I mean—can’t really remember. Who is he again?_

She puts down her phone. If this is still the same Quan as how she remembered him back then, this Quan was a slow texter. She needs to do something—better than sitting idly like this. Because it is so easy to be reminded of the call from her mother, from the things she did not even remember putting in the basket at the grocery store rather than whether they were expensive or not, from…

She sighs. _Giovanna,_ she recalls the encounter with the handsome lone diner who introduced himself as Hezul to her. _I’m Grahnye._ Standing up, she begins to unbox her purchase, wondering where even that name came from. All she could remember was just getting so panicked out of the blue because he was nice. Because he was considerate and seemed to understand how alarmed she was when he took her in his car. Because she thought it sure would be nice if she could get a moment full of smiles and niceties without having to be questioned _again_. Without having to feel like she ought to justify being there. Without having to hear why her name is uncommon too. It isn’t to say that Hezul is common, but turns out the handsome lone diner is an all-in-one package she will not be able to compete with. With the recent events with Chagall not even knowing the name of the person he had to suddenly fire, even her name began to taste bad in her mouth.

Because she is not supposed to even hope of seeing him again, right? Even when he still had such alarming exhausted look, bags under his eyes, and—oh, right, hospital. And it felt wrong to not help. Out of reflex she said Giovanna because… because they are not supposed to interact at all, right? Because he had seen her crying in that ramshackle soapbox that is her car—not to mention from the window of some high-end SUV he drove, with that alleged school girl looking sourly at her. After seeing her in such vulnerable state, why would she give him more reason to look for her even further?

Just then she realized she blanked and panicked because he really was the only person—no, _man_ —to ever ask for a contact recently, and not because he is a colleague.

Her phone vibrates. Again. And she answers because it’s not her mother calling this time.

“Hey there, Grahnye. It’s Q for Quan.”

“I know. Your name is there, Q.”

“Oh, right, right,” she hears sheepish chuckles from the other side of the phone. “So, why?”

“Wow, you really suck at texting,” she chuckles back. “Simple. I don’t know him.”

“You can’t even say I’m friends with him, but eh, invitation is still invitation,” Quan mutters on the phone. “And we can catch-up. Double-date, me with Ethlyn. Take your plus-one? The more the merrier?”

“Quan. Come on. Who?” she laughs bitterly on the phone. "And I don’t have money.”

“I’m sorry—what?”

“Oh? I mean, I don’t have time,” she quickly adds. Even after years of contact, she will not let it slide—not even to Quan. They are in friendly terms but she does not think she can call Quan a close friend—no, of course not because she dislikes him, but considering Quan’s always had his own group to be with… considering he is still one of the wealthier folks even back then… considering she is nobody’s league…

“I’m sorry, I can’t really hear you. It’s quite busy here,” Quan yells into the phone. Right, she can hear chattering around him as he speaks, voices sounding like buzzes that she cannot comprehend because they are so random and just… there. “How about we meet up? Can you? I think I’m going to be here for a while. Oh, right—are you done with work?”

“So done,” she replies, gritting her teeth. _No, really. I want justice._

“What? Hello? Oh—yes, it’s mine, with ice. Thank you.”

“Quan—where the heck are you?” she asks, feeling so annoyed all of a sudden. Alright, perhaps not so suddenly, considering Quan’s innocent question about work feels like hitting her on the spot. And now that she is not feeling emotionally well, the least she can use is for the typical _shit_ to happen again—people contacting her in a way which, according to her, making her feel like she is a substitute; someone people are looking for simply because they realized they missed a person or because they thought they had to rather than wanting her to be truly there. And no matter how successful Quan is... gosh, if there is something which makes her peeved it is when people talking to others while still being on the phone.

... Okay, perhaps this anger does not have to reach this level. But Quan should be wiser and not really reaching out to her just so she can hear more of his... exploits. Like the merry, _busy_ background which reminds her of how idle she is right now.

 _Or perhaps not,_ she contemplates on her shopping bags on the counter. She is busy too—see, busy recalling what even was it that she bought at the grocery store. Busy wanting to get back in bed and sleep for a millennium hoping people truly forget her when she wakes up, hoping that Elliot would have died by then. That should be convenient, right? And perhaps after that she can innocently relaunch herself into society, with people forgetting that—yes, this is the so-called grandma from such-and-such tower; yes, this is the twenty-five year old girl who dresses like an alleged hermit. And if by chance she gets to meet the handsome lone diner again, she will have the time to finally tell him that—no, her name is not Giovanna; she blurted it out of reflex because for some reason and another, namely being broke and ashamed, she decided to Cinderella-him like that.

... Or not. If she wakes up from such sleep, chances are he will be dead too. Good alternative?

“Oh, sorry. I’m at the bar,” Quan’s answer startles her. Great, she is only alleged hermit and she already thinks a lot? Perhaps that purple cardigan is indeed cursed. “I tell you what, G, why don’t we meet? Are you busy? Because like, literally the invitation just got to my office in the morning. Well, if you are busy, I guess I should just mail this to your office?”

“What? No,” she quickly retorts. _Crap,_ her brain laments. “I mean—you don’t have to, really.”

“Oh. Or should I mail you to your house? Wait a second, where do you live again?”

Quan’s another innocent question sprains her brain—again. _Oh, right,_ she muses. They know each other, but ever since they have been on their ways, most if not nearly all communications she weaved with Quan happened virtually so far. And what did Quan say just now? Mailing it to her house? Her wry smile brews right after she finds a lone can of sardines smugly smiling at her. Sure Quan wouldn’t mind if she takes his call while running around unpacking her purchases. Yeah, take that, awesome, successfully wealthy Quan Claus, even grandmas are busy too!

She sighs. Slumping in her chair she makes a mental note that it is good that she decided to shop—otherwise she would have to feed on canned sardines for... how many days? And speaking of which, how long this purchase will last? Recalling her mother’s last phone call, the realization creeps into her again—perhaps her mother has been rather subtle about it, knowing how determined she can be once she sets her mind on something. If not that, then how much she actually detests being reminded of her... condition. Perhaps she should give up this time, she thinks, eying her empty cabinet once again. Perhaps she can find something else to do back at the country side. Perhaps the paycheck will not be as grand as what big places such as Agustria can give her, but she will be back to her parents’ house and she can truly use some time to recuperate and eat real food. And Elliot Heirhein will not be there as well!

... But something in her is enraged. If she cannot have the sweet justice to smack Elliot right at the Adam’s apple to stop him from being a smug asshole, the least she can do is not giving what others expected of her. Biting her lips, she returns her attention to the phone, calming herself by inhaling deeply so that her voice returns to normal. At least Quan does not know that she is basically drowning in... various emotions now. There is sadness, there is anger, there is frustration, embarrassment...

“No, Quan, we can meet up tomorrow.”

“Great! You know I’d rather be talked to directly,” the other side breathes relief. “And... ah, right, we can catch up. Lordy, how long has it been since we went out again?”

Her glance automatically lands on the purse. At least now that the handsome lone diner—Hezul?—paid for the hotpot, she can set aside some cash for hanging out with Quan then. Again, she bites her lips. There should not be any shame at all—what, she is not even a bank robber! Knowing Quan and his circle of equally well-off friends and colleagues, there is a chance that the restaurant he picked would also be... like that. But then again she just set some money to pay for two people’s late lunch because of Hezul, so... “No problem. Where?” she asks, praying her meeting with Quan will be short. He has always known her as a diligent person, anyway, so...

“Oh, good,” Quan sighs in relief again. “Besides, there is something I might want to ask you.”

“Quan, I am not in a potential relationship right now,” she snickers. “Come on, you are predictable.”

“No. Perfect timing since you are the smartest person I know, Grahnye,” Quan mutters. “Alright, lunch with me tomorrow then? Let me pay. I always compensate your tutoring sessions.”

She smiles hearing that. For a moment she feels nostalgic—at least at school she excelled. Her work place was professional but way, way too cold for her—there she was a faceless person, constantly being pushed to do more with little appreciation; yet when she tried bringing in colors... when she tried to communicate, somehow it would always be taken as a signal of being weak.

Grahnye de Brún, twenty-five, broke and dejected, glances at her empty cabinet once again. Housing the last item she purchased into the cabinet, her wry smile emerges once again. Beggars cannot choose, she thinks, imagining the decision she has to make this week. Considering her being fired is so sudden, perhaps she should arrange a trip to go back to Leonster by the end of the week if nothing gives her an answer. Perhaps she can attend Travant’s engagement party with Quan and disappear later—it’s not like people will even notice when she disappears. It’s not like people even care when she’s there, either. The idea is admittedly way too tempting—by the time people will want to know about her more, she will be out of reach in Leonster, perhaps enduring one of those _I told you so_ from her parents because how can a frail girl from the countryside think of taking on a metropolitan city? The trip back home will need her car in the prime, so considering the impending expense she will need to blow out soon, then... yes?

 _Free food,_ she thinks again. She can skip the breakfast, get the free food while meeting Quan and save the rest for dinner, eat three-course full meals tomorrow, then two again for the next day... right, she can look for repair shops to gauge how much the preparation will cost, and how long until her car is ready to be driven back to Leonster. And perhaps she can drive her father’s old truck while in Leonster. Or—haha, drive? It’s a perfect opportunity to be brooding and lock herself up in the attic like a leper.

She sighs. Too late to retract that for Quan not to hear. She can hear Quan asking and praising her at the same time—she must be working hard and starting to feel exhausted, right? Because she is reliable. There is nothing to stop her there—it’s the high school valedictorian and one of those summa cum laude graduates from college, right? Because this is the ever-diligent Grahnye, after all.

Of course Quan never knew that studying has always been the only option she could have. It has always been a solace, a purpose—a mission and ambition too that she puts all of her into it. Because... because if she is not studying, then who is she—no, _what_ is she and what is she doing? Because that way she will not be as useful as she would have wanted, right? Because... because at least having good grades drove people to interact with her even if it only meant to copy her homework.

Taking a pen and a small notebook out of her purse, she starts taking notes as Quan speaks. The name of the restaurant, the time, everything... and as much as she wishes she would not have to, she did anyway; her another wry smile comes out because she recognizes the place—the diner where Deirdre works, where she frequents, and where she got to meet Hezul for the first time.

It seems that luck has never been so kind to her, anyway—but hey, at least her being there with Quan will give some impression of importance, like she is truly working hard without having people to ask where her car is—because like the day she met Hezul, it could mean that she is just out for lunch walking from her supposed tower. Why did Quan choose that place again? Shouldn’t someone like Quan be eating and patronizing places... like a Quan would do? Somewhere _better_ befitting his class?

Grahnye puts down her phone. Somehow she develops odd thoughts—perhaps Hezul did not actually need her help. Perhaps Hezul was just too polite to turn her down; after all he seems to be a prudent man who minds his manners, and considering the shiny Gold card he used, why would someone wealthy like that be eating at a typical diner?

Grahnye rubs her nose bridge. Her head rests on her arms, frustrated. What if Hezul was not actually sick—but rather, he could not eat the food because they did not suit his royal taste? What if...

Biting her lips, she throws away the brown bags from grocery store—at least Hezul would remember her fake name again. Now now, if only she could change face as well.

* * *

 

“Sorry, I am late,” Sigurd mutters, half-grumbling. He throws his briefcase over the empty space that is an unused chair while Quan casually lifts his eyes off a newspaper he is reading. Now that the blue-haired friend arrives, he puts down the newspaper, folding it neatly whilst his hand reaches for the coffee on the table. Sigurd whistles, wiping his forehead as he slams his bottom against the chair.

“Espresso—for lunch?”

Quan smiles a little, passing a folder over the table for Sigurd to see. “Eldie’s documents.”

“Wow,” Sigurd comments, scanning the first page Quan unfolds in the open. “He finally gave in.”

“His intestines did the work for us,” Quan replies grimly. “But that at least forces him to rest.”

Sigurd goes silent, recalling the disastrous Saturday night he and Quan had planned. At first everything went perfectly—not smoothly, but still perfect considering their blond-haired friend’s situation at that time. The Eldigan he remembers is always calm and composed, adulting before they even got to call themselves adult. Eldigan has always been that one friend who always had his driver ready whenever they went out even if Quan wisely brought spare umbrellas when Sigurd argued the sky was clearer than a well-managed koi pond. If Quan offered himself as their designated driver, Eldigan would make sure how their friends fared the moment they were out of the bar, already mapping a route while considering whether they will encounter a late-night restaurant along the way just in case. When Quan began to go out with Ethlyn, if the former would make sure he had the time to personally drive the younger Chalphy home, Eldigan when could not would call for a transportation alternative, prepay it if he could, and check her out by calling back—the same thing he would do to Lachesis despite the younger Nordion’s distaste for feeling chaperoned. Eldigan has always appeared prim and proper that the moment he is not, even worrisome is a mild way to describe that uneasy feeling both he and Quan have.

“You are thinking,” Quan’s voice breaks the silence between them.

“Can’t lie I am not,” Sigurd grimaces. “He yielded just because he was sick?”

“What do you mean just because,” Quan mutters. “At least he got to hear from a professional that he needed to rest. We couldn’t even make him _grieve,_ ” he gestures at the file pile Sigurd gave a quick read prior. “At least he agreed to seek help. I’d call that improvement, Sigurd.”

“Sure, sure. I will be lying again if I said I’m not worried,” Sigurd automatically grabs the file. “And this?”

“His assets,” Quan sighs. “Or rather, Papa Nordion’s. Well, it’s his now. And he has to work on them.”

“Holy sheep,” Sigurd mumbles. “If I were him, I might get stomach cramps too.”

“Precisely,” Quan nods. “Eldie and I agreed on something—I assess this with Ethlyn, but now that there’s billions here... and complete with _the Eldie_ —he has to hire a curator—planner, whatever it is. He’ll crash and burn if he does everything alone, so that’s what I’m going to do now.”

“And I am here because...” Sigurd looks down on the files again. What? This is not even his field to begin with. He’s a simple man, a simple, practical outdoorsy man that he chooses to work contractor business. Quan has always been the meticulous one between them, and if anything he does not understand why out of all people in the world, Quan would need his advice regarding work. There’s Ethlyn for that—always, the way she suggested them to check up on Eldigan that fateful Saturday night. The way she suggested them talking about something so ridiculous or funny to get a reaction out of him, to tempt him enough that he would be having no choice but laughing as well. Heck, Ethlyn kept reminding their father of his routine hospital check-ups. He hates to admit it, but Papa Nordion’s death and the change in Eldigan’s demeanor—behavior too—affected them in its own way.

“To be my partner here, Sigurd,” Quan finishes his espresso, wincing. “I never took lunch coffee before.”

“I know, friend,” Sigurd quips. “And no—if you cheat on my sister, I’ll _flay_ you alive.” That is more a joke than anything, which both mutually understand. Quan is his childhood friend and Ethlyn is his precious sister—the moment he understood that they did not mean to keep being just friends, he made his peace. At least it is Quan—the Quan he also knows and cherishes.

“Alright, jokes aside, exactly because you are an outsider, field-wise,” Quan guides him back to Eldigan’s files. “I’m inviting my college friend here. Should come in a few minutes...” the heir to the Claus family fortune glances down at his phone. “And she is the smartest kid in class I know. She breathes finance.”

“... You are not going to set me up,” Sigurd warns.

“Am I too predictable?” Quan grins, taking out the invitation he has planned to give the said friend for later. “You’re coming to Travant’s aren’t you? Please, Sigurd, don’t let me suffer alone.”

“You denied him your smoothie and he still invited you. Gotta give the man more credit,” Sigurd cackles. “Look, I’ll be there. But if you want to play Cupid, what is Eldie’s files doing here?”

Quan looks at him, ready to reply, sensing Sigurd’s displeasure—sometimes perhaps it is better that he does not work law firm. It is so easy to present pros and cons table, and as much as it is tempting, he has to remind himself that he should not treat his conversations with friends like a case file. As Sigurd still waits with folded arms, however, a face peeks in, carrying a tray. “Sorry to keep you waiting!” the waitress smiles apologetically, setting the tray between them. “Your onion rings and chicken wings?”

“It’s mine,” Sigurd says, clearing the space between him and Quan so the waitress can settle the tray. Glancing a bit he catches elegant swirling silvery-purple curls from her long, loose braid. There is a name tag that says _Hi, customer, I’m Deirdre_ over her apron, a typical tag the restaurant workers wear. The lady smiles at him again as she begins to arrange the plates, and for some reason, Sigurd’s fingers gladly freeze themselves since his hand tightly clasps around the cold cola glass which comes with his order.

Quan quirks an eyebrow.

“Um,” Sigurd mutters. “T-thank you.”

“You’re welcome!” Deirdre’s smile widens, which then—bless her for not hearing Sigurd gulping. “Oh, excuse me, are you not cold?” she proceeds to move the cola Sigurd has been clasping.

“Not at all, I’m blessed.”

“... Pardon?”

Quan snorts. And grunts because Sigurd kicks his foot under the table. The waitress— _Deirdre!_ Sigurd screams in silence—smiles once again before uttering the typical _Enjoy your meal!_ before retreating back to work behind the counter. The moment she is gone from their sight, Quan clears his throat, eyes laughing boisterously as his hand flies to not-so-gently pat Sigurd’s shoulder. “Oi.”

“She’s so pretty,” Sigurd beams. “If that’s her actual name on the tag—what a pretty name as well.”

“I’ve been here a couple of times in the evening,” Quan twirls his pen. “That one is a diligent worker. Too nice, too good for this place, perhaps—if you see those chaotic dinner rushes...”

“Such a goddess,” Sigurd whispers. “Say, Quan—what’s the godly equivalent of a dhampir?”

“Sigurd, Eldie’s life is in this folder,” Quan smacks the blue-haired friend. Sigurd gulps, sheepishly nodding without concealing the fact that his eyes have been wandering to the direction where Deirdre disappeared. “Seriously?” with a heavy heart, Quan pats Sigurd’s cheek with his phone.

“Alright, alright. Dammit,” Sigurd yields. “But she holds my life!”

Quan raises an eyebrow again.

Sigurd bows like a kid getting caught doing something mischievous before fully returning his attention to Eldigan’s folder. “I’m so ready. But this is confusing.”

“Sure, if you read it upside-down,” Quan heaves, giving Sigurd instant red face. “Sigurd, Eldigan has decided that he wouldn’t be posting open recruitment...”

“He did?”

“No, Ethlyn suggested,” Quan replies with such pride in his tone. “And that makes sense. Eldigan isn’t sure of many things, and on top of that he is already...”

“Beaten.”

“Suffering, I must say, but yeah,” Quan responds. “That’s a good idea. He can rest and the hiring process will keep going—if he presented himself in the open, people would just crowd him and again he has to face the fact that Papa N is so very dead.”

“But he has to,” Sigurd begins to demolish his lunch. “How long is he going to be like this?”

“At least by the virtue of his intestines, let his insides decide.”

“Ew.”

“Thank you.”

“You are supposed to be the civilized one out of us, Quan,” Sigurd rolls his eyes.

“Out of me and Travant, you mean?”

“Again?”

“What?” Quan cocks an eyebrow, earning another eye-roll from Sigurd. What kind of smoothie was it again? Now he is curious. Regardless of Quan’s old-age smoothie beef with Travant, the conversation proceeds—with Quan sharing his master plan with Sigurd. Eldigan will need to visit non-profit institutions and charity bodies where Papa Nordion was involved or holding a seat in the committee prior to his death, inspecting his own stocks, profits, basically all the details and nilly-willy about running a corporation at the same time including evaluating the savings and education insurance for Lachesis. If not that, then now that the family-everything is on his shoulders, even the simplest things such as paying for electricity bills will need to be drafted into the household’s expense chart.

“How is he going to hire someone in discreet?” Sigurd nearly yells.

“Well, I invite my friend to get this RSVP from Travant,” Quan grins. “But now that Eldie’s file is here...”

“You are hiring her on behalf of Eldie?”

“She’s an expert. I need an answer,” Quan replies confidently. “I’m not running Eldie’s house for him.”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

“And what is this then?” Sigurd asks, craning his neck.

“Blessing in disguise since the expert will be here shortly while I nearly suffered from aneurysm out of reading Eldie’s files?” Quan shoots him a flat look. “I’m not even going to try, Siggy. And sure, she isn’t supposed to see these files. I’ll be just asking questions, hoping she will satisfy Eldie.”

“That sounds weird,” Sigurd mumbles.

“Then stop trying to outdo a giraffe to look at Deirdre there at the counter,” Quan replies sullenly. “Eldie is desperate and he will not even admit it. That’s our Eldie—what can one hope to make him retreat?”

“His intestines,” Sigurd shoves an onion ring into his mouth.

“Ew, you are right—ew,” Quan steals one onion ring out of Sigurd’s plate. “This is so good...”

“And pretty, right?” Sigurd responds. His eyes are still glued at a certain direction like prior.

* * *

 

Eldigan lies flatly on the bed. His eyes are deeply focused against the ceiling. What is that spider doing over there? Insolent, when did it come? That spider does not even pay rent. He sure has to change the house’s Wi-Fi password. How does one extort money from a spider? If he was to interrogate it, how should he start considering many eyes could mean many lies? Anyway, he isn’t sure if he is still Eldigan and not a block of wood. He has been resting—or so he thought. Don’t overwork yourself, the doctor said; _don’t move around too much, be mindful of your food intake, don’t touch alcohol for at least a week until you are back for reassessment so we can see if your condition improved since your blood pressure is higher than normal—you were very stressed—_

 _I need my money back,_ he scoffs silently, looking at the spider again. It wouldn’t need doctor to point out that he was stressed—even Sally-Anne’s uneaten fries could just attest to it. Yeah, he was. Verily so, perhaps. And then what? Papa is still dead and the last time he checked, it’s never a two-way ticket. And will his family business wait while he sleeps like this? He does not even know sleeping can be so tiring. What a wonder—he wakes up refreshed, and his body stages a coup demanding... more sleep. He isn’t so despaired, is he? It’s not like he has been spending nearly a month with irregular sleeping schedule, anyway—if it’s not because of Papa, it’s _because_ of Papa. He never realized what _fear_ actually meant—and how numb yet tormenting it is when such fear morphs into a nightmare—an eternal nightmare. And he still can’t even bawl his eyes out even if he wants to.

It’s not like he didn’t try. He listened to Lachesis talking all the endearing memorable things Papa did. He looked into family albums with the triplets by his side, listening Lachesis’ choking sobs and watching Conrad dissolving into a puddle of teary old man recalling Papa Nordion like that. He waited and waited—alone in the room, with the lights off and everything, with trinkets he got from the late lion himself—and the moment he thought tears were on their way, turned out it was a sneeze.

He should stop bothering Sally-Anne when she baked garlic bread.

As expected, Ethlyn reached out to him because—yes, his emails were no better than a muddy pond; yes, he didn’t even fully understand what the heck it was he typed there; and yes, he was tired. When Alva, half-nervous but also eager—informed him that people of various divisions had been calling to reach him because either boards needed fixed teams if not how the old faces being eager to return while the new ones wanted a chance, he slyly told him that he just got back from the hospital.

“Oh. I’ll tell them that you are unwell,” Alva nodded understandingly, but he shook his head.

“Tell them I’m on a business trip.”

Alva shot him a wary look from the video-call he had back home, but he merely shrugged. They wanted him to work, didn’t they? They also wanted him to rest? Well, well—one can’t have everything in the world—except with little coercion, perhaps—so he worked, and he rested.

Or so he thought.

Papa’s notes remained unopened on his desk, safely locked in the study of the grand Nordion family house. He locked himself in the room, rolling left and right, falling asleep and waking up every two-three hours, feeling so disgruntled and uneasy that he drafted his own pillows as sparring matches. He slammed one of them—hard—against the wall, prompting Conrad to quickly knock thinking he had fallen off bed since the doctor suggested him a bed rest.

 _What do you know about me, Doc?_ Eldigan thinks, shooting death glare at the empty wall before him. He likes his room clean—the last thing he needs will be some poster staring back at him while he is trying to sleep, not rehearsing all his mistakes and fuck-ups to a decade prior.

_Fucking—_

His hammer kick is an inch from landing smoothly against the wall when his stomach growls. Sighing, Eldigan throws himself back into the bed, laying on his back again with his fists tightly clenched. He wonders—since when did cussing and fighting invisible opponents become such attractive activities to do like this? And how come his own organs dared to rebel against him?

Eldigan peeks into the prescribed medicine on his counter top, near the bed lamp.

 _Forgive me,_ he thinks. The sensation of nourishing hot pot is back into his mind—the pretty girl with fantastic brown hair who took him eating; she who left in a haste without any contact—

 _Get well and get your shit together so you can approach her like a gentleman again,_ his brain screams. And he just said it— _forgive me,_ he thought. What for? To whom? The wall? No, he didn’t even damage it. How cliche. Even he hates it. Why would one take pride at damaging his own house?

Eldigan draws a breath. This isn’t so bad, admittedly—being idle... no, resting, or supposedly so, while he takes time to have a conversation with himself. Or rather, spanking himself perhaps to snap out of this... he does not know what to call this, anyway—numbness? He has to grieve. But somehow he cannot. Isn’t this grieving—he just wants to be left alone, perhaps in a dark basement, away from societies, calling himself Diogenes, and probably travels to Sinop.

“Eldie? Are you awake?” he can hear soft knocking from the outside.

“Yeah. What, Sissi?”

“Did you change the household’s Wi-Fi password?”

 _Fucking fuck, I can’t even be Diogenes—what am I without the internet?_ “No, Sissi. Turbulence, perhaps.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Anything else?”

“... Like you?”

“What? Can’t hear you!” _Of course she can’t—I didn’t even let her in._

“Oh, nothing... go back to sleep, Eldie. I was just—uh, homework.”

 _No, disturb me—suplex me flat against the floor, bury me behind the wall_ —he really wants to storm outside to find Lachesis, but...

“Uh. Dinner will be ready in no time, Eldie.”

_And eating what—flavor-less food? Grass? Mooo._

He gave a copy of essentials which he dumped in a file folder the morning Quan visited to check up on him. Now he regretted it because Sally-Anne had to take away the glorious breakfast box Quan brought with him, as well-meaning as he was, only then he learned of the dietary restriction and medical advice needing to be heeded for around a week. “Had good sleep?” Quan broke the ice, awkwardly smiling at him. “Please don’t lie to me.”

“No,” Eldigan finally relented. “I threw up.”

“Gods,” Quan whispered. “Ethlyn and I will take care of your shit—figuratively.”

“Literally, it will be my honor,” he smirked, prompting his brown-haired friend to smile a little. And he figured a little bit help wouldn’t hurt, the way Quan helped him back into the bed, the way Lachesis brought his forgotten medicine back from the car. The way Sally-Anne came to refill the water for him, the way Eve mailed all the offered deals he could find since he was adamant about procuring a new computer. The way Sigurd texted every meal time to make sure he ate. The way Conrad’s cold, professional voice rejected all the calls addressed to the family landline for him. The way Sally-Anne ignored her osteoporosis to crouch because he missed a sock.

Quan left with the folder he entrusted, with an outline of hypothetical what-if questions in a separate sheet to weed out potential curators or applicants he might encounter along the way. That one he crafted himself—slightly proud for finishing them, and feeling a bit embarrassed considering he felt pretty energetic after eating the hot pot with the beautiful Giovanna of the day. Quan promised him to be back with at least an advice or development, and he had no choice but agreeing nervously—not just for the wait, but for what he put there. Grimacing, perhaps he just learned his first lesson—delegating.

Anyway, Giovanna—

Eldigan unlocks his phone, accidentally encountering a quickly-composed note he made detailing the hotpot restaurant’s address. He quite liked the food. Perhaps he could... return?

_... Does Giovanna frequent the place... often?_

Eldigan ruffles his mane. Why, is it just because a pair of beautiful legs successfully doomed him?

“No. Gross. I’m not a lowlife knave,” he vehemently grits his teeth. Yes, those legs are worth the pedestal, yes, that brown hair is too beautiful to reign on top of a mere mortal’s head, yes, she is funny too and those glasses actually make her look cute, and yes, not many ladies he encountered so far would be so willing to get into a cage match against the entire grocery store goods, but then again it’s not like he hated it either. If anything, he admired that frankness. He saluted that kindness. He...

... Yes, he still worships those legs. But that’s not the point, right?

Eldigan gets up. Grieving and whatnot—debatable. But he needs to be well again. He is the new lion in the house now, with a family fortune needing management and a teenage sister needing a strong figure to be the rock. He will _think_ of this grieving business later when he has time to spare for _playing._ See, Papa was workaholic too, but he never went down because of intestine problems—

 _Not intestine—his heart betrayed him,_ Eldigan bites his lips.

“Eldie?” Lachesis knocks on his door again. “Dinner?”

Eldigan fiddles with his phone. Conrad can drive him to the hotpot place, right? At least this time he will be going out on his own, on his will. Not because Sigurd had to drag him out of the den.

Eldigan opens the door, finding Lachesis at the threshold with an anticipating look she will never, never succeed hiding from him. “What’s for dinner?” he asks calmly, making his half-sister gasps a little bit.

“Y-you asked about food!”

“So I did. Well?”

“Oh, Eldie,” Lachesis murmurs, grabbing his hand. “Let’s walk slowly. I’ll just...”

The Nordion siblings stop at their tracks when a loud sound can be heard crashing against something. Lachesis goggles her eyes while Conrad, followed by Alva, quickly rush while Sally-Anne readies her hand a tap away from dialing 911. _Blame Papa,_ Eldigan purses his lips wryly, recalling that alertness and standard he subjected his children as well. _This is never a house; this is a company—no, a knight’s castle._

“What do you think it is?” Lachesis asks. “Stay inside, Eldie—we will check.”

“No. _You_ stay inside,” Eldigan grabs his Swiss army knife he conveniently keeps near the bed.

“... No,” Lachesis barks a warning tone.

“Yes. I’m your older brother. The head of the family. Your guardian,” Eldigan parries that tone.

“I can’t believe you pulled that on me!” Lachesis shouts at him.

“Sissi, stay inside—“

“And let you keep cleaning the mess?” Lachesis rushes before he can. “Or letting you use whomever that is-whatever it is as a target practice for another explosive rage?”

“Well, I...”

“It’s a yes, right?” Lachesis’ sharp tone castrates his will to argue. “No. YOU stay inside.”

“Sissi!” Eldigan races the younger lion’s eager footsteps, feeling so tempted to punch his own abdomen for all the tingling sensation the moment he moves so suddenly. Can’t he recover faster? Let’s just make it clear here—is he going to be actually sick or not? Heart attack didn’t even wait to end Papa—

Eldigan growls. Conrad follows while Alva darts his flashlight against the gate. He can hear Sally-Anne’s panicked voice trying to keep Lachesis inside, if not for the potential gory view if it is a car crash victim. “No, _dammit,_ do not lay a hand on me, Sally-Anne—“

“God, Miss Lachesis, please—your father would...”

“He is dead! He is fucking dead!” Lachesis screams, to what feels like a shattering hand grenade for Eldigan right away. _Papa is dead_ , the voices cloud his mind, manifesting into imaginary graffiti around him. Lachesis sobs while Sally-Anne hugs her, and he—

Sounds of metal clanking divert his attention, however. Alva reflexively darts the flashlight onto the direction where it came from, and he can only _gape_ when a car—or allegedly so—with ruined bonnet can be seen bumping hard against the gate. There is a sound of something thumping onto the ground, followed by soft coughing, and a figure crawling out of the car.

“Uh. Hello?”

“I’m sorry—what?” Alva shoots his flashlight into action once again. Really—a hello?

“Y-yeah. I’m looking for uh—Eldie?”

Lachesis stops sobbing, perfectly harmonious with his own jaw dropping to the ground.


	7. So You're Real

It was not supposed to go like this, she thinks. She coughs heavily—what just happened takes her breath away that she feels like she has to win it back. Lying down like someone who just evaded an airstrike is never in her agenda for the day, and she searches around, relieved to find her purse and bag over the seat. For the moment her entire livelihood is there, and if she is about to lose them as well, might just get that imaginary airstrike then.

Quan paid for the food at that cozy diner she was invited to. Travant’s RSVP is in her hand now, but if she is to be honest to herself, she really just took it out of respect for Quan for taking all the trouble to pay her food. Honestly, at this rate she cannot even promise she will still be here and not moving to Leonster. If anything, she cannot tell Quan that, though. Appearing perfect like a model employee already nearly took so much out of her when she got to meet Quan in the afternoon. Worse of everything, perhaps, is that he was not alone—he’s got a friend, blue-haired introducing himself as Sigurd Chalphy whom she instantly recognized to be the older brother of Quan’s girlfriend Ethlyn.

“You dress up,” Quan commented innocently when she showed up. At that time she could only purse her lips, shooting a wry smile she disguised as a modest, shy reaction as if he just praised her. ... Perhaps he did, but considering the situation she is in, it is way easier to feel suspicious of everyone and everything, as if they all look at her in that investigating manner because she isn’t supposed to appear that way to begin with. She is supposed to be Grahnye, the girl with plain if not orthodox fashion sense who dresses like an office worker in the seventies, prim and proper. But then again to her knowledge Quan is still in darkness regarding her situation, so she simply shrugged it off and even treated him like he wasn’t saying anything.

... Quan was right, though. She doesn’t even remember when and how she managed to snatch a cute knee-length floral dress—something she hardly wears in daily basis. When Quan commented on her dress all she could do was muttering a simple thank you, feeling amazed that now that she has all the time in the world, only then she even paid attention that her closet wasn’t as disastrous as she thought.

... If only this kind of confidence was around at least a week ago.

When she thought that was all she needed to do—taking Travant’s invitation from Quan only to leave the boys by themselves; perhaps save for Sigurd who seemed to have half of his soul wandering close by the counter where Deirdre worked—Quan asked her something unexpected.

Her former college friend laid out an envelope with... questions. First she was faced with a hypothetical scenario of a company having a certain amount of budget ready to be allocated for certain needs—charities with one option out of three, and other domestic-related affair such as production or even salary. The paper she received also gave out a so-called casual option such as what to invest in next and assuming the profit to be reaped if everything went well as expected. Being in the field, she should have seen that it was akin to those weeding tests companies use when interviewing potential employees.

“What is this, Quan?” she had asked, frowning, feeling a bit odd because Quan gulped while Sigurd looked like he was about to suck on his drink in one take. She expected an answer—a real answer like a Quan would do; something collected and reliable that she could trust, but he was no longer _the_ Quan she knew in that moment because her brown-haired friend somehow lost all his words, retorting to only scratching his head with sheepish smile.

“Oh, it’s a friend’s,” he said then. “He will need that to uh—test.”

“Come on now,” Sigurd rolled his eyes.

“I don’t accept advice from a smitten person,” Quan grumbled. “Your brain doesn’t vibe.”

“With yours? What an honor,” Sigurd muttered, quickly taking his eyes off from that certain direction he had been glued to since her arrival, prompting her to frown.

However Quan _kind of_ refused when she intended to return that particular paper back, which in turn only deepened her frown further—he made it sound so important; at least for this friend of his who would need it to test—whatever it was this said test was. “Um, like, standard, I believe,” Quan modestly worded it as such to her then. She would have blurted _if it’s a code for STD then your friend needs a doctor_ if only Deirdre did not come back to their table with her food, and she had to clean her glasses thrice considering Sigurd gaped like she just conveniently, unknowingly shaved his lifespan by twenty years upon learning that she and Deirdre knew each other.

“I’m disgusting,” Sigurd wailed while Quan took turn rolling his eyes. “Is this Fate’s punishment for looking at an angel? If this attraction is a sin, punish me and me alone—not her!”

“... _What_ even are you talking about?” she scratched her head, confused. She was supposed to be the one saying all these things, frustrated, thrown between wanting to burn her former office building or herself first for getting fired in the first place. Or because that cute neighbor managed to catch a glimpse of her in that ungodly pajamas and expression sourer than a century-old pickle. But Sigurd practically melted like an overheated ice cream, and as much as unethical it felt to her, she was kind of _glad_ that she was not the only sad person in the club—my, misery loves company, doesn’t it?

“Please pay no mind to him,” Quan conveniently smacked Sigurd’s head with a spoon. “We’ll refrigerate him for half an hour to make him as fresh as a newly-made juice.”

She gave Quan a Look.

“It’s just your friend over there is too pretty, I guess,” Quan, ah, Quan, determined to save his friend at all costs, again, made another tactical blunder. On the other hand, she was glad that this was indeed the Quan she knew from college, anyway—still the same down-to-earth fraternity boy who accidentally outed their entire class’ plan to crash a nightly music festival because it was broke college kid season that even rich boy like him could not simply buy tickets for an entire army—no, desperate college kids.

The Look she shot him only got to be more intense, and Quan gulped—face redder than a beet juice.

“I’m not cheating on Ethlyn!”

“What is this cheating on Ethlyn thingy I heard just now?” Sigurd frowned, and she sighed. Nevertheless, Quan subtly refused her returning the important-looking paper, asking if she could actually take a look at it and probably, quoting him, _donating her sharp intelligence and love for money_ to scan the paper.

“You made me sound like a highwayman,” she sighed louder. “Actually—yes, at this rate, I, too, am very much interested to be a highwayman, considering we don’t gibbet or crucify criminals anymore.”

“If it’s just about a nice big cup of Starbucks, by all means, rob me,” Quan smiled, patting her hand over the table. “That’s what we’ve always been doing, after all.”

“You are a sub,” Sigurd blurted. “And if you didn’t give people a raise for years, you deserve crucifixion.”

“Goshdangit,” Quan grumbled while Sigurd gave a finger-gun. “Alright, how much do you want, G?”

At that time she was too baffled to say anything that she merely opened her mouth as if Quan asked her to kill Sigurd and make his body disappear. ... Perhaps Quan secretly did considering Sigurd, for some reason unfathomable to her, became as coherent as a cactus when Deirdre left their table after sparing one of those kind, calming smile collections she had. But Quan did not say anything else—instead, he gave her a professional look, or as she dubbed it, the eyebrow-twitching kind of look which signifies a mutual consensus. Her heart felt soared because that look screamed money, alright, yet at the same time she wondered if there was some dignity she should keep before appearing... _less professional_ that she appeared to be so desperate for that low-key sudden editor job.

“I don’t know, honestly,” at that time, she kept her voice calm. “Does your friend usually pay people for this sort of thing? Some people would just send a thank you note and probably a gift card.”

“That’s brazen,” Sigurd blurted out of reflex.

“Oh, so you’re back with us,” Quan peeked at him. “Well—yes. Actually, that’s the thing he knows best.”

“What?”

“Cautious,” Sigurd was the one finishing what Quan said.

“That’s essential for a businessman,” she replied mindlessly. “In a way. Well, considering he doesn’t mind Quan doing this.” Sigurd snorted so hard that his cola went through his nostrils while Quan appeared sullen, so she kindly ran her hand over her brown-haired college friend to appease him. “I mean,” sheepishly she muttered, trying so hard to ignore that Sigurd basically invited her to feast on Quan’s blood right now. “That’s gambling, if this is indeed the quizzes he wanted to use to weed applicants. Like, what, he would just let you outsource like this? And the last time I checked, you’re still working law firm,” she returned her attention to Quan, purposefully speaking in kinder tone now. “And a cautious businessman who is also unafraid of taking risk sounds like a romance novel protagonist.”

“I can’t believe you,” Quan took turn snorting. “I mean—gracious Lord, you _do_ read those novels.”

“What do you think I am, a priest?” she quirked an eyebrow.

“So, what will be your next question—whether he’s dashing or not?” Sigurd suavely chimed in, fed up being the sole target of the day. He just worshiped an ethereally beautiful waitress with gorgeous hair and stunning smile—and that apparently made him qualified to be these brainiacs’ mark?

... Anyway, yes.

“I’m professional, you know,” she scoffed, trying to tone down the bitterness which suddenly emerged. “Doesn’t matter anyway. What does he work with, his face? Well-toned abs or something?”

“Some people thought so,” Quan chuckled a little. “I forgot you dislike blond guys.”

“Who hurt you?” Sigurd asked—innocently.

“Blond guys?” she sighed. “I mean—they tend to be flashy if not obnoxiously rich and dumb. I thought.”

“Sounds like she finds a cure,” Sigurd swallowed the last piece of his food while she, on the other hand, felt like eating their plates straight and munching them like a merienda snack. Well, if only she could vehemently contest considering bad experiences did not just go as simple as one-two-three after meeting an alleged dashing nice guy—but how could she, if she was to be perfectly honest that this dashing nice guy made her... reconsider?

Either way, she concludes their little lunch, telling Quan that she would try doing the paper first and then this Not-Annoying Blond Friend might as well reach out to her if he liked what she did. At that time, Quan looked almost deathly happy as if he just fixed a broken toilet or recovered from diarrhea—either way, Quan had the same relieved expression as she recalled of him during college when she offered to lend her book. That feels funny to her too that Quan acted as a middle-man between her and this oh-so important businessman friend—at the same time, it kind of piques her curiosity because normally Quan wouldn’t be this discreet. Moreover, the way Quan phrased it sounds like this businessman-friend of his is willing to give a blank cheque just for... what, analyzing a questionnaire?

On the way home she wondered if there wasn’t anyone willing to do so for this friend—how come nobody helped him if he was the one hiring? If he was the one hiring, why would he be so unaware of what he needed or what he had to seek from his potential employees?

Grahnye de Brún, twenty-five, broke and dejected, somehow had a revelation wondering whether corporate magnates were actually human.

* * *

 

A voice successfully distracts her as she climbs her way out of the debris. That might be the  _wise_ way to put it considering... alright, where is she? Her name? Age? Occupation? ....

—Alright, she is Grahnye, twenty-five, professionally depressed.

She coughs again, smelling smoke around dark surroundings enveloping her. She did hear sounds of something... colliding against each other, yes, and her greatest worry was that she ran over a cat or something. It was too late for her to realize that this something she ran into was a fence—a glorious, sturdy metal one with sharp-edged ends on their vegetal motifs, something her car did not catch clearly because—ah, right, her lights must be at it again. Or the door which needs a blackbelt’s willpower to close at times because handle it too softly it will rebel and handle it too mighty it will just break. And she wonders—is this still her car or her heart in question; when...

She sighs in relief. At least her property doesn’t seem to be damaged. True that her purse is thrown under the dashboard, slipping somewhere near the hem of her dress. But this specific envelope isn’t, something she feels so relieved about more than anything because in a way, it feels like she just proved to the universe that she is not going to fail what’s supposed to be her job in the first place.

... That doesn’ last long, however. There are clanking sounds around her, making her tilting her face up to see hands reaching into her car’s door. “No, no,” she mutters weakly before letting out another cough. When one particular clanking sound gets to be louder, however, she tries to crawl outside, suddenly understanding that it’s her own car doing such—her own car is about to eat her alive inside!

“I see something,” she hears a man’s voice outside. “Aaaah, hands!! Hands, Miss Lachesis!”

“And?” this time a woman’s voice cuts in, sounding disinterested. It’s almost like even if the army from the Underworld suddenly invades the earth, whoever this lady is, she will make sure to show that she is not at all impressed—while conveniently reaching for a rocket launcher to send them back to where they came from, perhaps.

Hands? ... Oh. Perhaps twenty-first century cats now grow hands...

A realization strikes her when her windshield dramatically breaks into two parts. It’s almost like being in a movie—slow-motion that it is almost, almost artistic if only her face is at risk considering her front window is shattered. She squeaks, clasping her hands above her head. One of the parts flies, hammering the back of her hand while another lands on the bonnet instead. Alright, that’s the clue. Gripping her purse and the magic envelope she crawls further to get through the door.

“Sir, I’m not joking. Do you even recall the last time I smiled?” the male voice from prior speaks in panic.

“Easy. When we got you triplets pizzas.”

“Exactly, when there was pizza to be eaten, not like this!” the male voice speaks again with raising tone, rivaling the calmer one. “I s-swear to God, I saw...”

“Enough of this hand talk. We need to see if there’s any survivor,” another male voice, deep and definitely calmer than that one, cuts in. “Sissi, you may want to look elsewhere.”

“Again, Eldie?” the unimpressed lady from before responds, even more... unimpressed. “What do you think I am, a baby?”

“Yes. You are my baby sister still,” Rich Voice firmly states. There is that subtle... strength, if she can put it that way, in the way the man responded to the fiery request from his sister. Suddenly she pictures a charismatic man, perhaps with the kind of regal aura who makes other people with an intention to start shit instantly feels dumb that they end up abandoning all their sinister plan. Perhaps she overthinks considering being trapped in a ramshackle car isn’t really giving her much choice in the first place, but...

“What could be found inside, anyway?” disinterested lady bites back, even sourer than ever now. “Move. Anyway, you are not even well enough to begin with.”

“I’m perfectly fine doing things an older brother should,” Rich Voice holds his ground still. “Sissi, you may see blood and I’m serious now. There are better ways to traumatize yourself than this one.”

“Like what?”

 _Like watching Papa’s demise and being unable to do anything_ , he ponders. Fortunately those words are perfectly halted in his throat before emotion gets the best of him that he barks at his sister. Speaking of whom, still—sometimes Eldigan wonders, if it costs him a kidney just to tone down Lachesis’ fire... just a little bit... then he will gladly rip one of those himself, because rather than feeling discouraged, Lachesis actually walks closer to approach this soapbox of a car. Right, some strange car which just conveniently ran against the fence of his family manor! Come to think of it, if Alva’s flashlight is to be trusted, why do those bright snippets feel familiar? What, is this the car of his past life or something? Did his past life die like this? Anyway, since when did he even care if he had a reincarnation? Out of the things one can ask about a past life, he chose to discuss a car model?  _Priorities,_  he clicks his tongue, suddenly feeling melancholic— _Perhaps Papa is laughing bitterly from the Heaven above..._ “Sissi,” he musters a stern tone. But Lachesis already put her hands over the door, trying to pry it open!

“T-the door won’t budge,” the Nordion heiress pants. “I’ll get uh... a chainsaw?”

 _A WHAT?_ —Grahnye gasps, desperately wishing some wild camera to come down telling her that she just accidentally waked into an action movie or something.

“No. We don’t know what happened to this car,” Rich Voice speaks again.

“Drunk driver?” the lady responds. If she sounds disinterested prior, this one clearly says she’s irritated.

“Perhaps not,” from the inside she can see a flash of light followed by a glimpse of some comfortable sports shoes crouching nearby. “Look, the bolt and nut are old.”

“The nut is nuts,” the previous male voice addressed as Alva chuckles awkwardly before voluntarily shutting himself up. “Sir.”

“Alright here it is then, Sissi,” Rich Voice sounds closer, closer... “Step back.”

“Eldie, what are you—!” disinterested slash irritated lady—Sissi or whatever her name is—gasps, like her inside. She can hear another sound... like  _breaking_ sound, followed by yet another response from Rich Voice.

“Can you hear me? Is anyone inside?”

“Y-yes...” she murmurs.

“I will get you out,” Rich Voice speaks again. She notes that his voice is comforting but weight with such... confidence, the kind of charismatic confidence that he will do as he says. Somehow it makes her feel more relaxed, like she can bet that whoever it is outside  _does_ determine to try saving her.

“Uh. I’m under the dashboard. N-near the gas panel,” she says.

“A lady, if I heard it right?”

“Are you saving people based on their gender?” frustrated, she blurts that out—and quickly shuts herself up feeling so embarrassed because... well, considering he and his group there determine to save her, perhaps she should be nicer? Oh, dear gods—what if it was his house she ran into? Likely so, considering they are the only people who give a damn there.

However a faint chuckle can be heard from the outside. That sounds familiar—and honestly, nice. Ahem—kind, considering the situation. Either that, or he is drunk. She hopes it’s not the kind of guy who will flirt with anyone with a lipstick. That can wait—at least she has to get out first! “Definitely not,” Rich Voice says... almost like he is so entertained to hear the response. “But knowing that you are, I can take more precautions. Are you injured?”

“I—honestly, I don’t know,” she squeaks. “I’m so sorry, oh, God—I don’t know. I really don’t know...” emotion begins to pile up in her throat. Why is it have to be like this? Why—

“It’s okay. It’s okay—I’ll open this door, but I need you to stay back. Can you move?” his voice is coaxing.

“Y-yes. I should be able to,” she responds. “Hold on—what are you getting me out with?! Chainsaw?!”

“My legs.”

She  _gapes._ “Your—what?”

“Yes. I’ll begin. Please stay back?”

She crawls back. “I’m—away?”

“Good. Protect your head.”

“Okay!” she puts her hands back over her head like before, and with flashlight directly coming her way, she needs to squint a bit. Much to her surprise Rich Voice breaks into her car with... his legs as he said—side-sweep kick forcefully tears into the front passenger seat’s window, shattering the glass around her. It is so surprising, surprising and unconventional—but slowly a male figure comes into her line of sight, making his appearance... cleaning the shards with his Swiss Army knife. He makes a little jump to get inside the car, covering his nose and mouth due to the smoke...

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“I don’t know, but the window you kicked did not stab me,” she replies, still way, way too stunned by everything happening around her. This has to be an action movie. This has to be—

“Alright. I’ll break the door and take you out,” he speaks again.

“Taking me out?” she blurts out of reflex—“Oh, you mean  _getting_ me out.”

Eldigan pauses upon hearing that. His flashlight shows damaged parts and broken shards, but—“Is that you, with the flowing beautiful brown hair over there?” he says, so, so innocently that he wonders why he hasn’t eaten this flashlight to begin with.

“Um—eh, yes? I have long brown hair?” she replies, confused. “You can see THAT from there? ... Men.”

 _Fuuu—_ Eldigan ponders. Really, he  _should_ be eating this flashlight, anyway. “Alright, I’m going in.”

“To take me out?” she needs to confirm this. So, she really  _is_ in an accident and not a shooting location?

“To get you out,” Eldigan responds, suddenly feeling his throat dry, and— _what the?_

“O-oh. Right. Sure,” she chuckles awkwardly because— _for real, what the hell?_

Eldigan carefully lies down, pivoting his dominant leg. Loud clanking sound can be heard when his foot meets her unfortunate car’s door handle, twice and thrice until somber flashlight peeks from the outside, giving her a glimpse of... freedom. “... Ah, opened,” his voice is just as relieved as hers.

“Eldie,” the fierce lady from prior quickly welcomes him back, looking so relieved if not just as confused as her. “God, you scared me! What do you think is this, an action movie shooting location?!”

 _Right,_  she nods in agreement.

“And where was that realization prior, Sissi?” Rich Voice-Eldie responds in a stern tone, successfully silencing the spirited sister. “Stop being so suspicious of people around here—if I truly am wanting to curb you thinking you are nothing but a baby, I would have locked you in a tower.”

“And I’m supposed to be thankful since you did not,” she can see ‘Sissi’ folding her arms as she starts to crawl out. “What’s next?”

“Sure, why don’t you do that since I’m here?” coldly Rich Voice-Eldie looks at the sister in her eyes. “Papa entrusted me to you.”

“Eldie!”

“There’s time for you to be brave,” he presses. “But there’s time for me to be your older brother.”

“... I can’t—I can’t believe you!” Sissi yanks Eldie’s hair before retreating inside in a flame. Meanwhile she begins to crawl, but Eldie unhesitatingly sweeps her off the ground. The other man—perhaps Alva—directs the flashlight at her as Eldie begins to seriously look at her.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, eyes so intensely tethered on her face. It doesn’t help—it doesn’t help especially when the flashlight interprets his visage and everything for her—

“Ah, the gorgeous lone diner from prior—again!!”

This time, she has no idea who yelled louder.

* * *

 

She sits still on the couch, as tranquil as the night. For some reason somehow she loses her will to say anything else or even make a move—not even the old lady who introduced herself as Sally-Anne kindly brought her a cup of tea before returning to the couch with a first-aid box. The house’s interior is even grander than it appears from the outside—here in their living room she catches a glimpse of elegance meeting finesse, giving birth to comfort and subtle luxury. From shows and interviews she has seen so far, some rich folks tend to go hard wih their properties as if they are making sure that their appearance do not betray the rich group they belong in, but here, assuming this is indeed the handsome lone diner’s—ahem, Hezul’s house—then the wealth is there, potent yet subtle and can only be experienced more than it is seen. The couch she is sitting in feels so comfortable and fluffy, the kind of coaches that don’t change form or flatten after being occupied. At the same time the material is of prime grade too—the cabinets are of high-quality wood, painted so well that she won’t be surprised if they are custom-made specifically for this house. It’s also spacious with a rack of crystal glasses neatly arranged in a separate cabinet with bottled red wines inside. They have a big, flat-screen TV installed in the wall with some Van Gogh replicas decorating around it and... she is pretty sure having caught a glimpse of fireplace too at a separate corner from this part of the house with tall shelves full of books and even more comfortable-looking chairs to recline and read.

“... Am I in a castle?” she quips, breaking the silence while Sally-Anne douses some cottons with alcohol. The old lady kindly smiles, however, shaking her head.

“My mother used to call this lion manor that too,” she says. “Hold on, this will sting.”

“Lion... manor?” she stares down, contemplating the teacup in her hands.

“Haha, right. Something silly we came up with,” Sally-Anne patiently responds anyway. “Perhaps because this family has a crusader ancestor and their family crest is a lion.”

“Oh, that’s what he told me too,” she mumbles. “I’ve no idea about the lion, though.”

“So you know the young master?” Sally-Anne looks at her, friendlier than before as if she just dropped a layer of her guard the moment she mentioned it. The old lady can see the subtle frown on her face when she mentioned that—young master—like she is having a hard time deciding whether to cringe or actually agreeing. Sally-Anne understands, though—in this day and age, calling a family that way is pretty uncommon. However the Nordions are an old family and could have had a title had they resided somewhere else, and if anything she and her husband are used to addressing them respectfully if not the habit picked up from serving the current lion’s great-grandfather and grandfather. Of course both lived and experienced a different era, but that habit stays the way that family crest prevails for centuries.

“N-not really. I mean...” awkwardly, Grahnye glances around before returning her eyes back at the cup, hesitant to be perceived having leered at the luxurious house. It’s like her entire apartment fits to be... this house’s bathroom, perhaps, and the image of Hezul’s Gold card once again flashes in her mind.

“How is she, Sally-Anne?” another voice startles her. Hezul—or whatever he is now, if not some distant lordling—returns to the living room, followed by Alva who carries the flashlights with him. Under the nice lighting in a serene night like this he looks even more dashing; his golden mane shines brightly under the central light dangling on the ceiling in the shape of... raindrops, like it’s made of diamonds!

“The lady hasn’t said anything as I patched her,” the old lady responds. “And her car?”

Her dashing host shakes his head, giving her such apologetic look. “You need to have it towed.”

“... That can’t be,” she sighs, feeling so, so utterly defeated. She should have thought, thought—it’s just when she’s confronted with facts like this everything sinks in and such realization is... unpleasant.

“I’m afraid that’s the case,” he says. “But let us take care of you first and that later.”

“Right. What happened?” Sally-Anne asks gently as she takes a tube of ointment out of the box.

“Uh. I’ve got a... eh—some little work to do for a friend. He didn’t say a deadline, and I’ve got questions as I was close to finishing it,” she gestures at the envelope they managed to salvage with her purse. “Tried contacting him, but he was a slow texter, I suppose—or probably busy because he didn’t answer when I called. I didn’t know where to ask, but there was that address written on there and here I am?” she grimaces a bit when Sally-Anne’s ointment lands on her forehead. “And uh—my car was acting again, I guess. But I’m glad the victim is your fence. I mean, not that I  _am_ glad it ran into your fence, you know, but like—I am glad that I didn’t hurt anyone. Or like, um, stray cats?”

“But you got hurt,” Hezul reaches for the envelope she talked of, to which she reflexively clutches back.

“Nooo. My friend said it was confidential!”

“For Eldigan Nordion,” Hezul, however, conveniently flips out the envelope, finding the address on the other side. Ignoring her with a straight face he takes out the papers inside and reads one of them. “Oh...”

“Oh, no, you are bad,” out of reflex she swats his hand, grabbing the envelope back. “Really? You’ve never heard of not reading letters and things that aren’t specifically for you?”

Somehow the corner of his mouth twitches a little. Her action stopping him, her frank remark chiding him, and to some point, her dedication to safeguard what is entrusted to her tickles him. There’s curiosity which suddenly blooms inside his chest, accompanied with... a humorous feeling to top this  _flavorful_  impression of her somehow. “My apologies. Of course, sure, you are right,” he returns the envelope. “Did your friend say anything else?”

“I’m not sure why it’s even interesting to you in the slightest,” she frowns. “S-so! Right, my car has been like that for a while now. I didn’t even realize the lights basically didn’t function—my original plan was to stop to ask for direction to find this Eldigan Nordion in the address. I have a feeling this one is pretty urgent—that, or this Eldigan is getting swarmed by a bunch of crocodiles at his swamp of a workplace. Is this Eldigan... oh, sorry, I have no idea how to address this person, even—see, the name is pretty unique too, like yours. Why, do well-off people have eccentric medieval names or what?”

“Eldigan? Ah, he’s a man,” the handsome blond stranger chuckles a little. “Same goes to you, I suppose, not everyone is named Giovanna—commonly.”

“About that,” she bites her lips. Giovanna. The name she blurted out of panic and nervousness, first thinking they wouldn’t even meet again and second, thinking something so obscure should make her forgotten. But apparently this Hezul fellow did not forget about her, and... speaking of which, perhaps he is indeed a lion? “I am not... um, how should I put it...”

“She is probably not as innocent, don’t you think?” a voice tears into the room, revealing a displeased ‘Sissi’ from prior. She has that sour, sour look on her face, and she wonders if the siblings will argue again here—instead, Sissi slams something onto the coffee table they are facing, eyes hammering against hers like a prosecutor stripping a criminal naked. “You are Grahnye de Brún, twenty-five?”

“That’s my driver’s license,” she mutters in a low voice after looking at what the blond-haired girl has set. “... Do you and your brother have a habit of grabbing things which aren’t yours?”

“Depends, you see,” Sissi seats herself before her, folding her arms without changing that hammering look—a gesture surprising her considering she has to be younger, youngest in the room, perhaps, but that confidence, fierceness and demeanor are commanding that it almost made her feel so small.

... Almost.

“Yes,  _enlighten me_ as to why you took this off my purse, Sissi,” she glares back. Really, disrespected by a teenager after surviving a car crash, ruining another person’s fence, having to tow her car in the middle of the night? At least Sissi could have start with a hello or something.

The younger girl appears fuming after her sarcastic tone reaches her. “... Do not call me that,” she hisses. “I don’t even know you.”

“Then you should stop rummaging through someone else’s belonging like that,” calmly she replies while the blond girl before her seems to be appalled. “Especially if it’s the person you don’t know.”

“Perhaps because this person whom I don’t know might want to take advantage of my brother?” the blond girl snickers, prompting her said brother to quickly reaches the other couch, alerted. “How do I know you did not purposefully crashed your car against our fence?”

“... Excuse me?” she looks back.

“Everyone wants something from my brother,” the blond girl sneers. “And he’s too kind so here I am.”

“... Is that so?” Grahnye clutches on her dress. It is too late for either leonine siblings to react because she quickly gets up, surprising Sally-Anne who still tends to her bruises and cuts. She grips her purse and the blond girl instantly goes alert, perhaps anticipating her to throw it at her face if not more. Yet Grahnye simply opens the purse, drawing something out of it. Her hand trembles as she throws the little thing straight at the blond girl’s lap, anyway, not her face, not once that she even jumps to fight her. “That is my card,” her voice also trembles like her hand, but her gaze is sharp and her demeanor dignified. She does not free the younger blond girl from the confinement of her eyes, and Eldigan, barely reached the couch where Lachesis is sitting, can see how hurt Grahnye is at the moment—her cheeks flare and suddenly he feels... bad. That truly is the expression of a demeaned person.

“Miss,” Eldigan tries to interfere while Lachesis gapes. “Let us treat you first. Please.”

“That is my card,” again she repeats, ignoring Eldigan and shooing off Sally-Anne’s hand trying to apply another ointment on her. Dictating her PIN number, her voice is clear although it is coarse, an inch away from breaking into sobs. She holds her head high, muttering the latest balance she remembers. “That is the amount I have so far. Let me know how much I owe you so I can contact my insurance agent, I do believe I have a little life saving I can use,” she continues coldly. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“You are leaving?” Lachesis finally breaks a voice.

“Oh, yes. I’m professional, I assure you,” she grabs her purse and the envelope Quan entrusted from earlier. There is that flaring satisfaction, to see the rich girl getting tongue-tied and looking embarrassed. Perhaps only then it registered into her that not all people are parasites. Yes, the brother is rich and handsome, yes—and she has no idea if he has irrational exes or whatnot, but why would she hammer her own car into their house knowing well that’s basically the only transportation mode she possesses? And—hell, now that the car is in shambles, she may need another plan to get back to Leonster. Perhaps asking her father to pick her up, swallowing all the proud talk about wanting to be independent by tracing bustling, merciless metropolitan Agustria since people talked of her like a porcelain doll. At least porcelain doll is pretty and treasured, she thinks bitterly. And to add insult to injury, nobody could guarantee she would not _die _after crashing like that!__

“But your—card,” Lachesis mutters weakly, realizing what she just did.

“What of it?” her reply is conveyed in a calm voice although her eyes feel... hot. “Bye, Sissi.”

That time, she is sure that the younger girl is the one feeling meek and small.

“... Would you wait, please?”

Ah, the blond-haired brother is heading her way. See, she should have ended it sooner. No need for this all. She should have died perhaps—that will be the most convenient of them all, including her—“I’m Grahnye,” she states. “My utmost apologies, I really had no idea where that Giovanna came from. It’s been a while and then...”

_No, Grahnye, it’s not important—how do you expect him to believe you did what you did because suddenly you went alert and his niceness was unlike anything you have ever had so far and more so when he flashed a Gold card and and and—_

“And then your knee is purple-blue and bleeding,” he says, matter-of-fact with a straight face.

“I can walk,” she replies sourly. “I’d love to leave my phone here for you and Sissi—“ cheekily she glances at the blond girl, who is glued to the couch like she’s petrified. “... But I need this to call my parents and perhaps—perhaps a taxi.”

“Grahnye,” he calls in a coaxing manner.

“I’m—not lying. I’m not Italian. I’m Irish,” dumbfounded by his tone, she mutters out of reflex. “I mean.”

“I mean you need a treatment,” he repeats. “You survived a car crash.”

“Sure, you can help me,” ignoring the throbbing pain around her body, she tries to keep her face cold. Perhaps all these injuries start making their presence known now that the shock is over. “Seems you know this Eldigan person so if you would be so kind showing me the address...”

He  _looks_  at her.

“This is your neighbor, isn’t it?” she states again, starting to grow impatient. Right, exactly because she is wounded that they can’t spend time stalling in this house! And—gods, why would she be surprised if they are neighbors, if anything it makes sense considering it’s a rich guy.

“No,” he responds... like baffled.

“... Oh,” she mutters, feeling so, so frustrated so suddenly. “... I can’t even drive right, it seems.”  _Don’t cry here, Grahnye, don’t—_ “I was pretty sure I had everything printed...” she searches around before slapping her own forehead out of reflex—and yelps, forgetting there are bruises and cuts over there too; must be when she slammed hard against her steering wheel when the collision happened. “I guess it was left inside,” murmuring, she really wants to flee now. How does she make them believe that she isn’t doing this on purpose? At the same time she isn’t sure if she even  _wants_ to see her car again.

“Don’t go back,” out of reflex as well, he stops her. “What if the car crumbles while you are inside?”

“I—I really printed it when I used Google maps. I mean—I didn’t mean to snoop, I just... I just...”

“Come here,” his voice is comforting, akin to what he did when getting her out of the car. “Grahnye.”

The way he spoke of her name contains gentleness. He probably thought it would ease the tension among them, but on the contrary... “Don’t—don’t make me want to cry on you now,” exhausted, she sighs. “I have never been here and I thought—Google could help me navigate a-and...”

“Grahnye,” he repeats calling her name, his hand clasping hers. “Did I say I don’t trust you?”

She goes silent, but slowly shakes her head.

“Then I believe you. Come on, let Sally-Anne continue.”

“But this file,” she squeaks. “And I need to be fast otherwise it will be way too late and...”

“And I can differ, really,” he looks down, examining her and somehow that intense gaze makes her feel shy. “... Look at all those cuts...”

“It’s—alright. Please, I didn’t say this so you gave me a lift. Just—just tell me the address. Please.”

“That’s not what I’d like to offer as well, Grahnye.”

“O-Oh...”

“Let Sally-Anne treat you. Tomorrow I’m supposed to have myself checked at the hospital too and you can go with me as well. You may experience waking up sluggish and aching as the pain catches up,” he says. "And then we'll talk about my file."

“It’s not new,” she mutters. “I’ve always been frail. I’ll manage.”

“Even if that is the case, how many times have you been in a car accident?” he cocks an eyebrow, and she swears that despite his flat tone and straight face, his eyes appear to be... smiling.

“This is my first time,” she replies shyly. “W-wait. YOUR file?!”

“Yes,” finally he yields, being the first to break a chuckle. Courteously he extends his hand at her. “I’m Eldigan Nordion. That one over there is my sister, Lachesis—and yes, this is my house.”

“Oh—God,” she buries her face with her hands. “I really, really, had—no, wait— _have_ no idea.”

“So you can rest assured because you did not fail, right?” politely he ushers her back to the couch. “We’ll talk about work afterwards, how about that? In the meantime, do take some rest.”

“H-here?” she glances around.

“Oh, I agree,” Lachesis snaps for a moment. “Here? You could have—“

“Silence, Sissi,” calmly Eldigan retorts, prompting the heiress to shrink. However she  _quite_ understands that Eldigan might have run out of patience juice at the moment—an even rarer occurrence so far which is why people, her included, quickly shut up when he projects his Nordion-firstborn bearing like that. “I think you need to tell her something more important before that part.”

“I’m not apologizing for protecting my brother,” she replies coldly.

“No, but in this house we don’t insult people based on what they don’t have,” Eldigan’s voice is firm.

“You know it’s not that part that I’m concerned about,” Lachesis counters.

“It is exactly because  _it is_ , am I not right?” Eldigan presses but his tone only gets to be... gentler. Lachesis stops talking, getting up, placing the card back on the table as she fumes to retreat further inside.

“Yes, keep exposing yourself to potential scandals and weird situation.”

“Uh. You won’t need my card?” Grahnye asks innocently.

“What can that thing do anyway?” Lachesis shrugs while Grahnye is too stunned to make another reaction. But the heiress’ face is red that she understands the younger girl said it only as a last resort to preserve her confidence back. In a way, she understands. At the same time she really wants to tell them that not everyone is out to skin them alive like that—at least not her. Hell, she didn’t even know who he was at first. Eldigan Nordion who? She hardly even paid attention to socialites!

Eldigan watches her contemplating the card, as if feeling it with her hands knowing well there really isn’t much money to drain out of it—at least compared to what the Nordions have in that house, perhaps. “We’ll start with your car tomorrow,” he says. “And this is like...” glancing at the antique clock at the corner of the room, he returns his attention at her. “Nine?”

She doesn’t respond.

“Would you want a bath or something before joining us for dinner?” Eldigan casually gestures at her. “This house is adapting to my prescription, however, if you’d pardon us for the menu.”

Somehow she wants to smile cynically. Pardon  _them_ for the menu? Here, in this little palace?

“Perhaps you want to... change?” Sally-Anne tries to mend the awkwardness, again, with the same kind manner, starts ushering her from Eldigan. “Come here, dear. Let’s make you comfortable. One of the guest rooms will be ready for you.”

Her way of talking reminds her of a caring, warm grandmother that for a moment she’s close to... crying.

“I’m alright,” she murmurs. “I just. I just...”

“Your dress is torn,” the old lady says. “Come on? I’ll see her taken care of, Eldigan.”

“Sure. That might be the best,” he nods with a smile. “You are my guest, Grahnye.”

She does not respond, so Eldigan excuses himself to be back outside with Alva—who didn’t even dare to open his mouth throughout the entire event. But as soon as they are out, faintly she can hear Alva whistling, again with his flashlights back in action. “Gods. This could have killed her!”

“Which is why I’m grateful it did not,” Eldigan crouches. “What do we do from here?”

“I’ll call my brothers and we can push this into the yard so it won’t block the road,” Alva suggests. “You need to rest too, Sir. And come on—I know what you are thinking but no, we are not drafting Conrad.”

“Alright, alright, my squire,” Eldigan chuckles. “You triplets can spend the night here as always.”

“I’m calling my brothers,” Alva nods before making a quick swipe with his phone.

* * *

 

It is not supposed to be like this, she thinks—again—as she shrouds herself with the pleasant warm bath water in the guest room allocated for her. Even the guest room really is comfortable despite containing only a single bed and—probably—not as spacious as all the main bedrooms in the house. There’s still a touch of elegance despite the minimalist interior which reminds her of a hotel, only more comfortable with an over-all homey feeling. The bathroom counter uses a rustic with a touch of vintage design—separate toilet with shower box _and_ a bathtub. This still feels so surreal—at least until her bath water turns color and the warm water gives a stabbing, throbbing pain that she forgets she is actually injured. But despite the little incident her muscles rejoice. The warmth of the water, the therapeutic perfume smell of the available body wash clear her head. She rinses, drying the wound, ready for a bandage when the door behind her is knocked.

Sally-Anne appears by the door with a pile of clothing in her hand, smiling and carrying the same first-aid box. It’s like only then she truly realizes how much her body needs this all. The old lady bandages her wounded knee as she watches herself in underwear, grimacing because some bruises begin to display and only then she realizes she indeed, has cuts around her legs.

“Feeling better?” the old lady startles her.

“Y-yes. Thank you...” she draws her legs closer to test the feeling—and again, the shyness attacks her because she is practically sitting with her eyes widened like a child learning a new surrounding in her underwear. Perhaps she is. This is a new surrounding and there isn’t even a bathtub in her apartment.

“Ah, here—clothes,” the old lady says, putting the pile on her bed. “Join us for dinner, Miss. I’ll be in the kitchen preparing everything and your clothes are already in the wash.”

“I uh...” awkwardly she looks down. “I don’t think Miss Nordion would want to share with me.”

“Oh, it’s okay. This is Eldigan’s and not Miss Lachesis’,” the old lady smiles reassuringly. “We still keep his old clothing from boyhood, after all. Actually, he apologizes for making you wear these.”

“It’s alright,” she says. “Really—you’ve done so much for me. I mean, considering...”

“If you are Mister Eldie’s guest then that makes you ours too,” Sally-Anne pats her shoulder. “Oh, pardon, did that hurt? My, you really need a doctor, Miss.”

“N-no, I’m alright...” this really is surprising. Her, the peasant, suddenly being attended to like a lady? Regardless, Sally-Anne talks about the hospital which she only half-hears for a moment. Everything still feels surreal that she wonders if she can even adapt if only for a day. Yet it’s nice to have spare clothes to change into, and in no time she dons some football-themed t-shirt and red shorts wings a lip-gloss over her lips with the little essentials she keeps in her purse, she emerges, feeling so out of place and awkward with the urge of... looking presentable.

She cannot find their dining room, but her mindless travel brings her to the kitchen. Sally-Anne leaves a pot boiling on the stove, perhaps going somewhere to fetch whatever it is needed to make the dinner she halted. Out of reflex she scoops some of the broth to taste it with her hand, grabbing some spice bottles to mix into the pot—mindlessly, unknowingly, as half of her is still so disoriented.

“Sally-Anne, do we still have the ice cream like yesterday, or...” a voice startles her, prompting her to drop the ladle. Lachesis Nordion shoots her a sour look, surprised to find her there—let alone with their food. “... What are you doing?”

“I’m...” she picks up the ladle from the floor. “Oh—gods, I’m so sorry, I guess my mind was blank that I...” she gestures at the boiling pot, feeling Lachesis’ eyes tracing Eldigan’s old clothes on her. “... I spice the soup,” meekly she says. One realization after another begins to enter her mind that it’s almost like they bombard her head, including this one. “I didn’t do anything and...”

“Yeah, I know. Considering you kept saying that,” disinterested, Lachesis opens the fridge to find the ice cream she wants. It does not escape Grahnye that she slams it shut, however.

“... I know your brother is unwell,” Grahnye tries again, speaking gentler this time.

“Interesting. What else do you know?” Lachesis speaks as if she just yawned. “Does he know that you know these things?”

“Um. H-he told me.”

“Judging from everything, I thought you did not know him,” the heiress casts an investigating look.

“I didn’t know he’s Eldigan Nordion,” Grahnye tries to reason. “And this—I’m doing a makeshift five-spices. This will make the soup more aromatic. It must be hard not to be able to eat well while unwell.”

“Now you know,” Lachesis waves her hand. “And what do you plan on doing next?”

“Replacing your fence.”

The Nordion heiress shoots her another look.

“And perhaps—calling home to go home,” Grahnye fidgets with Eldigan’s shirt she wears. “To Leonster. My hometown. It's time, I guess.”

The look on Lachesis’ face shifts, but the heiress quickly hides it. She takes a spoon to taste the broth, closing her eyes for a second. “Sally-Anne is... resting, perhaps,” the heiress mutters. “Rheumatics.”

“Oh,” Grahnye says. “I can take this to the dining room then...”

“Do so,” the heiress responds. “... I mean. If you would.”

“Of course,” Grahnye smiles at her, surprising the younger Nordion. Lachesis takes a container from inside while she helps stirring the soup. “Here, taste this. Too salty?”

Lachesis gasps.

“I’m not poisoning your family, you see,” Grahnye chuckles, gesturing at the big selection of ingredients occupying the house’s luxurious kitchen. “Too bad that they remain unused.”

“I’m glad that you are at least honest saying Sally-Anne’s cooking is bad,” the heiress looks at her.

Grahnye blushes. “No, um—eh, Lachesis—Miss Nordion,” she replies. “But perhaps she stays with the old plain porridge rule—this assumption that when someone is unwell, classically you give them a simple dish with simple flavor like a hospital food. That’s not even the case, the way vegetarian food doesn’t equal weird or bland.”

“Oh?” the heiress looks at her. “... Ugh, no ice cream. Just pudding.”

“Sally-Anne cares for him,” Grahnye points at the pudding container. “That will be good for the stomach.”

“... Oh,” the younger Nordion mutters, not knowing what to say. “Then I guess I’ll take this for Eldie.”

“Thank you!”

Lachesis clears her throat when Grahnye smiles at her. “You haven’t won anything, by the way.”

“It’s alright, I’m not even competing,” Grahnye casually returns the line. Lachesis glances at her again from the corner of her eyes, but she does not say anything else besides beginning to walk to the dining room with the healthy pudding container in her hands.

Grahnye follows Lachesis since she definitely has no idea where the dining room is located. They do not say anything anymore considering Lachesis seems to make it clear about not being interested in making conversations with her either. They find Eldigan already waiting at the table, and she smiles at him—awkwardly. Eldigan on the other hand simply smiles back.

“Ah, so my old clothes fit.”

“I-it seems, yes,” Grahnye tries to neutralize her awkwardness by making a small chuckle. “Sally-Anne said this was like, what, your clothes from... boyhood? How old are you again?”

“Twenty-six?” Eldigan reaches for a water pitcher on the table. “... I suppose.”

“S-suppose?”

“... Lately things happened that I...” he looks like he is about to say something, but swallows everything back with that glass of water. “... Kind of lost track, yes. It’s embarrassing, really.”

_Because remembering my own age means I will remember... Papa._

“Actually, no, it isn’t. I understand, I’m actually like that too. Sometimes some things happened and we found ourselves overwhelmed,” Grahnye blurts—again. “It’s actually good to feel sad, you know? I think it’s even more concerning when you don’t feel anything.”

Eldigan’s sharp eyes peek at her. “... And what do you think, if such thing is to happen?”

“Hmmm. Perhaps that person needs to be kinder to themselves,” Grahnye mindlessly responds, setting the soup pot on the table. “You know like how you would caress a child after getting hurt, telling them it’s okay to cry? Perhaps like that. T-this sounds silly, but many people grew up without such chance.”

“... Perhaps,” Eldigan quietly mutters.

“It’s okay though. Everyone is a little different and some people have their own moments. Eh—y-yes, perhaps. Like your old clothes over here. Eventually you grew out of it but it’s not like they stopped being a part of you? Um, considering now I can borrow. Eh—forget what I said, I mean—thank you.”

“Oh, those were mine when I was fifteen...”

“You are kidding!”

“... Why would I?”

“I guess this explains everything! You are shiny, brazenly tall, and you speak like an old lord!” she wails so dramatically that it’s almost comical. “Don’t tell me you can use a sword too!”

“... I, in fact, fence,” Eldigan clears his throat. Now that she reacts so brutally honest like that, somehow it’s getting harder for him to... not smile. “But now that you are my guest, I’d rather get to know you.”

“Eh—w-we can do it tomorrow, I mean, with your file in question, um...”

“Oh. Sure,” Eldigan stands up wit a small smile, extending his hand to gesture at her to sit down. She really wishes she did not even _stare_ at him as he does that, yet she _is_ staring at him, anyway, wondering—well, she anticipated rich folks to be eccentric. But what she never thought would be happening is simply a rich person with polished mannerism like... an actual old lord. And he seems to be flawlessly pulling it off, like it’s not odd or obnoxious—rather, it’s natural like it’s in his blood. She may frown if it is a different chance, but now that he is doing that, somehow everything just feels... fitting.

“Thank you,” she, not knowing anything else, settles down, anyway.

“You are welcome, and it is Eldigan,” calmly he states.

“N-not Hezul?” again, her comment flies out of reflex, but Eldigan from the other end of the table does not wince or make a different expression—at all.

“If you’d prefer.”

“But what do you want me to call you with?” she says. “... Mr. Nordion?”

“... No.” For a moment she thinks his eyes flashes fiercely because she uses the name. Gulping, she keeps her head low, wondering if she offends him. Likewise Eldigan seems to realize what he just did, and he, too, in turn, appears regretful, speaking with a slight bow at her. “... Just Eldigan is fine.”

_Papa—_

“Understood,” Grahnye mumbles, making a mental note to ditch the Mister-Nordion altogether. They are just about to begin eating when Sally-Anne hurriedly comes into the dining room. The skirt she wears appears to be a bit messy, and without being asked the old lady quickly apologizes to Eldigan.

“I’m sorry. I had a relapse—the arthritis and rheumatics, I mean. I’m so sorry, Miss Lachesis, I forgot to tell you we did run out of your favorite ice cream, but we could buy it tomorrow, I’m sure,” she says, gesturing at her leg which is now conveniently wrapped with a special kind of legging like she used to see being advertised on TV—equipped with magnetic field or something similar, it’s supposed to better the blood flow and reduce strain to preserve the joints. “And the soup...”

“Eldie’s guest brought it,” Lachesis’ cold tone breaks in before Grahnye can answer. “And she spiced it.”

“I was just...” Grahnye puts down her spoon, losing the heart to look at Sally-Anne. “I’m—terribly sorry, I just meant to help! He’s been losing appetite for a while and...”

“And she took me to eat hotpot,” Eldigan casually intervenes. “Still unconvinced, Sissi?”

“Shut up,” Lachesis glares at him. “I’m not doing what I’m doing for sadistic reason.”

“Oh, gods,” Sally-Anne sits down.

“I’m so sorry! Really—“ Grahnye braces herself thinking she has offended the old woman, but much to her surprise, Sally-Anne clasps her hands with her own... beaming.

“I’ve been wanting to do more because yes, exactly, that’s what happened since...” Grahnye frowns when Sally-Anne gulps—especially considering Lachesis shoots a _specific_ sharp look while Eldigan looks down. “... Never mind. Well, I’d love to make our Eldigan eat, sure, but considering his prescribed diet...”

“Oooh God,” Grahnye slumps at her seat. “I’m so glad you weren’t offended!! No, no, I understand! Like I told him, I actually just got released from the hospital! And eh, similar diet they prescribed me. It must be frustrating! So in order to get healthy again, you really need to eat a lot...” she returns her attention back to Eldigan, who is conveniently slurping his bowl.

Eldigan looks back upon feeling everyone’s eyes are directed at him. “What?”

“... He ate it,” Lachesis whispers.

“Oh?” Sally-Anne cranes her neck. “... The young master ate the soup!”

“Boss, you ATE!” Alva chirps so loud that he nearly chokes on his own soup.

“I don’t...” Grahnye, flummoxed, looks back as Eldigan looks at her. He is smiling...

“... Back then it was chicken wings. And then hotpot. And then my own house,” he speaks in tender tone.

“You must be mistaken, I didn’t make you eat your own house,” Grahnye frowns. Perhaps dealing with a truly eccentric tycoon heir like Eldigan, frowning will be the most common reaction she will muster for the time being. But Eldigan simply chuckles while Sally-Anne thanks her, and Alva nods at her as if he just _prayed_ for a miracle and got it. Lachesis hides her expression by downing her drink, but her body language can attest that the heiress appears somewhat more relaxed compared to prior. Oblivious to everything, Grahnye reflexively touches her braid—a gesture which seems to capture Eldigan’s attention once again as the older Nordion reaches for the ladle in the pot.

... That particularly stuns everyone for the second time.

“I hope you like the room,” Eldigan, still with a straight face, addresses her.

“Oh, it is very lovely and comfortable. Thank you so much,” she nods. “And for even receiving me at your dining table. And then...”

“We have painkiller if you want one to help you sleep,” Eldigan says. “Pardon me for cutting in, but I know what you think and no—your sleepy face advocated for me.”

 _He really is an old lord,_ she thinks, _... Or a lion?_ “Sleeping—here?”

“... Yes?”  Eldigan responds. “And with me too, since I need to sleep earlier.”

Alva stares while Sally-Anne helps Lachesis choking on her drink. But Eldigan seems to truly oblivious for anything else that he doesn’t realize his household employee wonders if he’s aware of that accidental silver tongue if at all while his own sister nearly died five seconds ago. Grahnye wouldn’t fault Lachesis for dying, though—considering she just contemplated smothering herself dead for blushing at the line.

“I uh,” awkwardly she says while Lachesis finally spits the drink which nearly ruined her lungs. “I thank you for your hospitality, Ezulgan.”

“What?”

“Eldigan! Hezul—no, I mean, Eldigan!”

She expects the entire household to shoot her that _are you nuts_ look again like they did him, but they do not, and Eldigan definitely does not. “I guess we need some time to make you getting used to call me,” he says simply. “Grahnye...”

Either he is teasing or not, his voice comes off so soft like a gentle breeze. It’s almost like he’s testing her name in his tongue, and again—she finds herself too shy to even look at him. This is bad, she thinks, because Eldigan seems to effortlessly make her feel so awkward every now and then. Perhaps he is a vampire? Does he even realize the power he possesses—or even how attractive that face actually is?

... Probably not. And perhaps for the greater good of humanity.

“I eh—there will be a chance for that tomorrow, I guess,” she squeaks her reply. “Eld—“

“Right. Sleep after this, and work tomorrow,” Eldigan reclines in his seat. “... If only you knew how great it felt for me to be able to say that—normally.”

“I—don’t understand,” she replies honestly. “... Eldigan. Eldigan! Ah, I did it! ... Uh—sorry.”

“... Never mind,” the name owner merely says. He banishes his sad smile the moment she pronounced his name, and again, even if she wants to feel so sure of herself, she would bet that those stormy eyes begin to calm down when he heard her saying his name.

“Um...”

“Never mind,” Eldigan repeats, speaking softer this time. “... Grahnye.”


	8. Seriously

At first, it feels strange.

She stretches her arms upwards, feeling sunshine peeks through the room from the curtains she kept closed from the other night. The feeling of the bed startles her—so much that she jerks around, disoriented and confused. The beautiful mirror nearby reflects the full view of the bed and only then she realizes she has spent a night somewhere else, not in her own house.

Checking her phone, she really wishes she could swallow it—eight o’clock in the morning? She doesn’t even wake up at eight during weekends! And now—what time and day is it today?

She looks down. She is still clad in the shirt and pants Eldigan loaned yesterday. A house this big with a personal assistant taking care of its domestic affairs—where can possibly Sally-Anne place her clothes? The thoughts occupy her mind but something in her barges her to quickly get back into action. She just spent a night in Eldigan Nordion’s house.  

 _Eldigan Nordion’s house,_ she ponders. Eldigan Nordion. _The_ Nordion. The current and only Nordion newspapers have been talking about lately. She did not read all of them, but due to being in the finance field, the senior Nordion’s passing became a tale of the week even during lunch because affiliated companies and businesses were enthusiastic and wary at the same time regarding what kind of step the new heir would take. The name is spoken often, but the person himself does not make appearance as often. Back then question brewed whether he was the introverted reclusive type because rich people often times are not without their quirks. But Eldigan Nordion has never been a loud-rich kind of type, she thinks; if he was, she would have heard about him without having to look… right?

She plugs in her phone to charge. The motion causes her to bump against the bed post by accident, and she winces again, feeling the throb around her limbs. Sally-Anne was right, her injuries only start to appear and they are now throbbing again. Even if the ointment the older woman applied on her managed to dry the cuts, her muscles and joints start tensing and aching again as if she just did a heavy physical activity in a sudden.

If only this was her own house, she would take deliberate time in bed—but now that she woke up in Eldigan Nordion’s house, she wants to give a better impression—after all she crashed into their fence, and she is certainly not in the mood for the Nordions—especially Eldigan’s sister Lachesis who did not shy away from showing her displeasure in regards to her presence—to criticize her even further.

Slowly she takes herself to sit. At least Eldigan’s guest room has a nice comforting bathtub with warm water she can use. Speaking of which, was her dress from last night done drying? It really felt odd—she might be wearing Eldigan’s clothes, but she would so love to be able to change into a new pair of underwear. Only after pondering it like this that she realized how traumatic yesterday’s experience was, but at least all the holy above had mercy on her—if not for Eldigan’s important file on the counter.

The warm water does feel relaxing, but at the same time the temperature bites into her skin. She winces again when the water runs on her body—it feels so odd, so odd and lacking, somehow, that she stands awkwardly, working in what feels like forever just for the sake of putting a towel on her own body. In a way it makes her feel like a child—shivering near a bath, not wanting to get out yet, not wanting to come inside either—she just wants to curl in bed until forever, perhaps, until everything feels kinder and tamer that she does not need to feel so hurt and sad like this.

Soft knock startles her that she quickly gets up. The action, again, causes her to wince and grimace, especially after noticing that her right ankle is now ugly bluish-purple. Sighing, she settles down, massaging it, feeling so weird but angry at herself for being this way—if only she was better. If only this did not happen in Eldigan’s house. If only, if only, if only—

But Sally-Anne needs to know that she already woke up and actually got dressed. She couldn’t afford for the household to accommodate her like this; instead, all she needs to do is presenting her findings to Eldigan and then quickly leaves. And hopefully Lachesis isn’t awake yet.

“Come in,” she murmurs, feeling even more stupid all of a sudden. Dragging the blanket to wrap her body with, there is this sudden urge of feeling rising inside her chest, like an overdue emotional turmoil which was dormant yesterday—the time when she was supposed to feel those things. Perhaps it is indeed what her mother used to call ‘shock after accident’, considering she is introverted and that it does not actually take much to make her feel anxious. She hates this all—the helplessness, her inability to walk with her own feet; how easy it seems for life to get her. And what should she tell Sally-Anne—that her entire body hurts like a child being overwhelmed by nightmare?

Yet another surprise waits because the one coming in turns out to be a totally different person than her expectation—instead of Sally-Anne, it is the master of the house himself. Eldigan Nordion’s face peeks in, gradually announcing his arrival by slowly moving inside. His serene smile quickly falls upon seeing her predicament that he withdraws courteously at an instant. “… Pardon,” he says, with his voice low and deep as if he just _knelt_ apologizing to her. “I did not—ah, I should have said it was me.”

“Oh, g-goodness. Y-yes. Um. I was expecting Sally-Anne!” she quickly retorts before saying anything else. “B-but this is your house, yes. So of course you can enter.”

“It does not work that way, Grahnye,” the blond-haired host smiles a little bit. For a moment, she pauses. It’s almost as if he is tickled by her response; like he expects her to send him out, feeling disturbed or uneasy for the sudden interruption. He notices that her cheeks start getting a bit rosy upon hearing him calling her name, and he wonders if that has made her feel uncomfortable in any way.

“… It doesn’t?” she asks innocently, fixing the blanket on her while the spare clothes he gave last night lay neatly folded nearby. “O-oh. It’s not a question. Uh. Sorry,” she murmurs again, eyes landing on the envelope resting on the counter. “So when will we…”

“Ah. Would you fancy a breakfast?” Eldigan asks. Before she can respond, however, he quickly slips away from there, only to return seconds after with a… cart.

She blinks.

Eldigan Nordion is dragging inside a meal cart like a hotel worker. For her. For her, the guest he did not even expect or invite to stay in his house. And supposedly, it would be common courtesy to offer her some—and it’s not like she totally cannot work her way to reach their dining room. And yet he is there regardless, casually taking the cart to set it over the counter as he sets the file aside. Without saying anything he simply opens the lid, hand traveling to make a gesture showing all these delicacies to her like making a presentation. “There’s some rice,” he says, pointing at a bowl. “And fried egg just crispy but not overwhelmingly spicy Sally-Anne cooked for me. These are baked potatoes. I must say, Grahnye, today is quite colorful because lately my house has been giving me porridge or other soft, easy meals.”

If only she can make another reaction besides blinking, though—it’s still so, so unbelievable, Eldigan Nordion bringing her breakfast in _bed_. Not only that, he is serving her… while she gets all awkward being only in her underwear, protected by the guest room’s blanket. “Um…”

“Tea? Coffee? Or orange juice?” Eldigan calmly keeps going through the foods he is bringing, oblivious to her awkwardness at the moment. “I can’t touch that one yet, though,” he looks at the juice. “But after making everyone else follow my menu, I don’t hate having to forgo this one for them.”

She watches Eldigan taking a new plate out of the pile, getting everything on the tray little by little to form a heartful platter. Slowly she takes the plate from him, embarrassed and awkward; yet he still has the same serene small smile on him regardless. He watches her swallowing her first bite, looking relieved more than pleased to see her eat. “S-something funny?”

“Hmmm? Oh, no. I’m not laughing at you,” he quickly retracts. “Did I look like I was?”

“N-no. I mean—I’ve never… and breakfast in bed… while I’m supposedly…” she fumbles through her words, hating it again in a heartbeat. “I—still broke your fence, Eld—“ she stops then. His name still feels odd in her mouth, somehow—especially now that everything unfolds like this. Even after knowing each other’s names, somehow it’s still not just as easy. He has tried her name a couple of times by now, and somehow the more he appears to be accommodating to ease her, the awkward she gets.

“Yes?”

His faint chuckles only make things worse—by now she is not really sure if it’s because of the ill-fated fence anymore. Sure, true that it has to be awkward as hell to receive hospitality from the person whose house you ran into. Sure, it’s not like she did that on purpose, and if anything she was grateful Eldigan actually treats her well like this. But then again he already stole her coherence during their first encounter, anyway—and even here, he is still like that; bright like the sun, and… charming. Perhaps the collision makes her dumber? Perhaps the collision shocked her so much that it isn’t only robbing her joints of their health, but her verbal coherence as well? Why is it that Eldigan’s… sweetness only making her feeling so drowned in her own shyness rather than smoothing things out?

“Um,” she peeks at him. An idle spoon rests in her hand and now she isn’t sure how to react.

“Say it,” he simply says.

“Eldi—“

“Keep going.”

He drops his voice that his tone comes out so coaxing that it’s almost like he is relaxing her. “… Eldigan,” she murmurs again, finally succeeding to push his name out of her throat. She did not choke—for that, she is grateful considering she was planning on grabbing the nearest drink she can reach just in case.

“I am. Thank you,” he gives her a simple nod, looking pleased this time. “Want seconds?”

“You fixed me a generous plate,” she responds. “Have you eaten?”

“I have.”

“O-oh. Alright. Glad that you have—“

“… Two plates. A glutton, huh?” the blond-haired host chuckles.

“N-no! I never thought you are! Besides, with that height, won’t you eat a lot?”

“My height?”

“Yes? Your size is astounding,” she blurts out, instantly regretting that next. “I mean…”

“No offense taken,” the blonde simply shakes his head. “It does feel good to be able to eat again…” she was close to ask what he meant because for a moment, he did appear to be so contended, as if he just told her that the latest real meal he had was moons ago. But by then Eldigan has slid closer, seating himself by the bed as she finishes the serving he gave her. “So, according to Sally-Anne…”

He makes a simple move to slide the blanket at her legs upwards, again, surprising her a little bit. “Um…”

“I don’t feel comfortable reading a woman’s body,” he explains. “Just a little bit—please, allow me.”

Under her watchful eyes, Eldigan gently tugs on the blanket, exposing her bare skin just right from the shin and under. His eyes darken a little upon noticing the bruises she suffers, including one particularly nasty purple-bluish rounded mark close to her ankle. There is that little head-shaking gesture he makes—so, so concerned that he is that his attention makes her feel bad as if she sincerely troubled him. But Eldigan returns his gaze on her as his thumb gently presses on the ugly bruise mark. She bites into the blanket to conceal the pain, but Eldigan abruptly leaves, leaving the door open.

She looks at the opened door, with the food cart he has not taken back. Did she disturb him? Is he _disgusted_ by the view he just saw? She was about to ask, but the host is back with none other than Sally-Anne rushing with her glasses and the medicine box she saw from last night. “Miss de Brún?”

 _So Eldigan called for her,_ she thinks, watching Sally-Anne’s comforting smile like a nurse who checks up on a patient the first time in the morning.

… And perhaps that is the case. The idea itself throws her off balance all of a sudden, and memories of being the forever-protected frail princess that people did not know what to do with. The days when she would be running out of breath, when she got bruised easily either by falling down or because they shoved her down. When they called her prude and prissy because they thought she was this holier-than-thou high-achiever student who would sniff while looking down on them—

“I’m fine,” she said roughly, attempting to get up, surprising even Eldigan. “I uh—I’ll get dressed and we’ll get to work.”

“About that, Miss de Brún,” Sally-Anne exchanges glances with Eldigan before returning her attention on her. “Your dress is torn. I have it with me if you’d like to take a look, but…”

Only then she manages to look at another thing Sally-Anne had brought into the room—her dress. She reaches for it to unfold it, surprised that now under bright daylight it does appear worse. The dress looks like a relic of the past for being torn on the bottom, with revealed smaller cuts on the top part of the fabric. Perhaps because she bumped into things as she collapsed inside the car. Perhaps because the fabric is old and and and—“Goodness,” that is basically the only thing she can muster.

“I’m sorry,” the old woman speaks again. “Do you really have no spare, or…”

She shakes her head. But in a heartbeat the sorrow is gone, replaced with a sparkling determination as she gathers shreds of the dignity she has lost. “It’s still wearable,” she slips the dress from over her head while Eldigan turns away out of reflex. Slowly she slides off the bed, holding onto the bed post to watch her own reflection being captured in the beautiful mirror Eldigan’s guest room is not at all lacking for. Now that she wears it, however, the dress even gives off a pitiful impression of her, and she isn’t sure if she regrets this move or actually praises her own bravery. More than ever she looks like a pauper in a prince’s house—well, she already is, but now this one really makes her appear like a ragged person: the torn parts, the wild threads hanging loose from some ends of the damaged hem…

“I’m not sure about that,” Sally-Anne mumbles, breaking the silence among them considering Eldigan wisely holds his tongue still so that he does not have to comment on a woman’s appearance.

“Don’t worry! We’ve ever had a bad day, don’t we all?” trying to neutralize the awkwardness, she quickly catches the ball thrown at her. “If I could get a taxi, it’s not like anyone will see me at the street.”

 _… Perhaps cute programmer-neighbor,_ she ponders secretly. But then cute neighbor doesn’t have anything to do with this all—he catches her looking like a giant pile of sad mess being in pajamas in the afternoon, and now in the morning she is going to exit a taxi looking like a natural disaster. Thinking about it makes her chest tighten somehow even though cute neighbor and her are strangers still.

“So, I’m going to take my leave,” she shrugs, but Eldigan stops her.

“Hold on, please.” He draws his phone from his pocket and—oh, boy, if only the call is from someone else—someone from within his circle. From one of his wealthy friends. From a business contact, whatever—except it is, only that this person happens to be all of them plus a mutual friend they share together the moment he speaks on the phone. “Yes, this is Eldie. Ah, Quan?”

She freezes at an instant, warily glances on her dead phone that is still being charged by the guest room’s comfortable bed’s counter. Fumbling through the sheet and everything, she turns the phone on, and immediately greeted with notifications of missed calls and a text Quan sent at one in the morning. The text simply asks where she is, with a little apology in the way because his date with Ethlyn and a prolonged meeting through the entire afternoon totally stole his chance to even check on his phone. And she immediately remembers Quan is a slow texter through and through. It is more than tempting to grab Eldigan’s phone right away if only her brain did not stop such feral thoughts, however—

“Hmmm? Your friend? Ah, Grahnye. Yes, in my house. Just finished dressing.”

 _HOLY—_ by then she grips on the pillow, weighing the pros and cons to throw it at Eldigan. But her host’s tone is just flat, flat, flatter than an Earth-flatter supporter can imagine how flat the Earth supposedly is, and with it she withdraws, sensing that Eldigan just said it with a straight face without any ill intention.

“My file is safe, her—not so much. Rough night, torn dress.”

Sally-Anne blinks when she _leaps_ from the bed to tackle Eldigan back on it.

“Hmmm? What do you mean, I am extra? … Extra what again? I don’t understand. Anyway—“

“Oh, gods,” she mumbles when Eldigan gasps since she fences him from behind to send him flying backwards. Eldigan tumbles onto the bed, looking so confused like a cat losing five lives all at once while she grabs the blonde’s phone awkwardly. “Quan! Quan, it’s—the _hell_ do you mean I had fun?! No, listen—yes,  the file is still in the room. No, haven’t talked about it with your friend. Haven’t had the chance—why the absolute _blazes_ are you laughing?! Anyway—h-huh? Yes, this is Eldigan’s phone—nooo, I did not kill him, what made you think of such idea?! He is…”

“Here,” Eldigan calmly takes his phone back. “Sorry. I got tackled back to the bed. … Fun? I don’t get it. I’m getting ready for work as well. Knowing—what, Grahnye? Ah, a few occasions here and there. … Pray tell, what do you mean feeling cheated again? The one wanting your smoothie is Travant, not me.”

“Noooo!” she whisper-wails behind him. “Oh dear Lord—you are too pure.”

“… I guess I’m interrupting something private,” both she and Eldigan can hear Quan clearing his throat as if a bulldozer is getting caught in between, however. “Talk to you later, friend?”

Quan kills the line the way she would want to kill him as well now—both she and Eldigan meet a blacking-out phone screen until the fade-out changes revealing a statistic of the last call Eldigan received. “… I think he _greatly_ misunderstood,” Eldigan mutters quietly after a moment. “I’m sorry about that.”

“N-no need, actually, _I am_ sorry about that since he’s technically my old friend!” she, on the other hand, scratches her head, more than tempted to pull her hair out now. Really? Quan seems to forget that just because he is dating Ethlyn and having the best moment of his life with flowers, candies, and chocolates everywhere, does not mean that everyone’s life is just as perfect as his is! … Or, specifically, romance life.

“Quan is your old friend?” he looks at her.

“Y-yes! Took several classes with him in college…” she returns his gaze, immediately feeling shy. “… I’m sorry. I tried to contact him last night pertaining your file, though, but…”

“… He’s always been a slow texter, yes,” Eldigan nods. “Grahnye, I’ve known him for nearly all my life.”

“Oh, that has to explain why he’s all-out helping you like a horse—w-wait what?”

“Since the era of internet messengers,” Eldigan simply nods solemnly, although his eyes… aren’t as quiet. “Come on. Join me outside and we’ll get straight to business.”

“Y-yes. Sure.”

“And perhaps, Lachesis can…” he darts a quick look at the dress again. It really is ruined no matter how objective he wants to be; imagining her walking in it alone sure will raise eyebrows. But the moment that name escapes his lips, he curses himself too; he just opened a can of worms without meaning to. Seeing Lachesis’ protectiveness working yesterday did not disturb him—it was actually his concern towards this gorgeous lone diner; he wondered how he could salvage everything without crossing either considering Lachesis may not at all want to lend her clothes just as much as Grahnye wouldn’t want it.

“… I think I have something the lady can try,” Sally-Anne cuts in. “If you don’t mind uh, _my_ clothing.”

“Oh, I’m truly thankful for that!” without wasting another chance, she agrees. Relieved, Sally-Anne takes Grahnye to her own room where they raid the closet together.

Once again Eldigan finds himself tongue-tied when Grahnye comes out with a French braid and a maxi dress too big for her own posture and certainly too old for this time and age—however he hides a small smile as Grahnye with Sally-Anne’s help, alters the gown with a few pins and readjusting the flaring dress to fit her by putting a belt on her waist. Eldigan might think he’s been transported to the thirties—yet he is also well-aware that he does not mind, considering the lady who is busy trying to fit in a dress never meant for her appears… stunning. Of course he cannot tell her that the braid already stole his breath the moment she walked out of that room. Of course he cannot just easily walk up to her to tell that whatever it is which is making her so self-conscious right now, there is only beauty in his eyes as she gradually comes into a full view in his line of sight. Perhaps it’s those tempered brown eyes. Perhaps it’s the same beautiful brown hair, now _cutely_ worn into a classic braid especially with that red ribbon of hers. Perhaps because classical fashion makes her appear elegant and he wonders if she has heard it at least _ten times_ in her entire life that she has such graceful bearing despite the awkwardness.

“Uh,” she mumbles, and once again Eldigan wonders how much is too much if he was to smile at her considering the blush makes her cheeks a bit rosy like that. She stands facing him with a mixture of awkwardness, doubts, and general uneasiness, and by then Eldigan starts weighing his pros and cons if he is to just compliment her looks being great without making everything worse for her.

“That’s a great effort,” he nods then, hoping his words are wise enough. From the corner of his eyes, he catches Lachesis swaying closer, eyes puffy-red with a stain of jam at the corner of her lips. For that one he does not need to wonder whether Lachesis has been crying again the night prior and stress-eating the breakfast. He already questioned himself if it was too excessive of him to banish the trinkets such as traveling souvenirs Papa Nordion brought for him—now safely locked in one of the drawers he does not frequently open. But deep down he understands that it is already too much to ask from Lachesis, had he ever wanted to persuade his sister to take quite an extreme step by removing all the things which easily remind her of their father.

“… Eldie,” Lachesis says simply, darting a look at their guest. “Oh. She woke up already?”

Eldigan inhales quietly. He realizes it fully now—there’s no escape. Their blond hair reminds him too much of his father. He lives in them—their existence is his; and now he understands why he easily got nauseous upon watching himself in the mirror during the first nights after Papa Nordion died.

“Hello,” their guest turns around, politely nodding at Lachesis. She takes a step back out of reflex which did not succeed escaping his keen eyes, however, when Lachesis looks back as if projecting a “What?”

“You know you can just talk to her without having to go through me, right, Sissi?” he folds his arms. Alright, he gets it, Lachesis loves him too much and wants to protect him. But it seems his sister isn’t the only lioness in the room, considering his guest stood up to her the night prior, ready to defend her dignity first without having to weasel her way out of her faults.

“What is this sudden supportiveness, Eldie,” Lachesis grumbles. “And—uh, that is…”

“Spare clothing,” Grahnye replies, wondering if it’s her self-esteem being put on the test or it’s just Lachesis that is charismatic and strong that she feels… overwhelmed. There is certainly something more to the Nordion heiress rather than the money of the prestigious family following her last name, but what she truly did not expect was that it would be so strong considering the heiress is much younger. Sure, age does not do much if the seeds are already there, but somehow she cannot help but wondering why the heiress’ bright pyre burns so strongly that it consumes… hers. It’s not like she wanted to be there in the first place and the heiress wouldn’t need to do anything to make her feel awkward and out of place more than she already does.

… And yet.

“Oh,” Lachesis mumbles back. “… Oh?”

Eldigan seems to be close to say something, but again he withdraws his tongue. Instead, he glances at his watch, and then his phone, frowning a little bit deeper than usual that she nearly asked if it was Quan again teasing them. But even if the Quan they both know is a slow texter, the Quan they both know is also a serious person who will not stall by playing a clown while his work is waiting. “Sissi,” the blond-haired host returns his attention to the heiress. “Today, you go to school with Conrad.”

“I suppose, to drive her around,” Lachesis replies sourly. But Eldigan does not put up another expression rather than pressing his lips tight that the heiress squeaks. “… Seriously?”

“Yes. I’m needed at our office as well,” the blonde replies. “You better get ready too.”

“… I need to go to school?” the heiress casts a disbelieving look at him. “Seriously?!”

Eldigan sighs. A moment after his hands travel to clasp his sister’s—gently, but his voice is nonetheless firm when he takes turn speaking. “Yes, Lachesis,” he says. “You cannot skip school—again.”

The heiress sighs. Eldigan nods understandingly, softly ruffling her hair. “… Stop that,” she murmurs. “I was just done dry-blowing it.”

Eldigan smiles upon hearing the response. He understands—he understands everything if not too well. Lachesis is hurting like he is, and like him too, she knows she cannot run forever like that. Papa wanted her to succeed; exactly why he had been setting up education insurance and a saving account for her university needs in the future. That also explains why everything that is supposed to be hers would be hers when she turns twenty-one, the way the Nordions of generations would always celebrate their family members growing up to be a full-fledged adult. And now going to school is more about honoring Papa’s wishes even if she really isn’t feeling it. “… Treat your classmates to donuts or something,” Eldigan’s voice startles her now that she finds a fresh fifty dollar bill in her hand.

“… Donuts?” she repeats in disbelief.

“I’m getting my office folks that as well,” Eldigan murmurs. “I suppose if everyone is busy eating, nobody will be too idle to ask about… us. About Papa, I mean—“

Lachesis gives him a small nod before sinking herself once again in big brother’s comforting chest.

* * *

 

When Eldigan gestures at her to follow him, she does not object. She merely thinks that he is going to drive her back—or rather, take her to the hospital as he promised yesterday—yet the tycoon heir seems to have another plan in his mind, starting from their little inspection to his front yard.

Under bright sunlight her car appears to be even more miserable than it already is. She can see everything now—a debris, perhaps, is a more fitting way to describe it rather than a soapbox.  The man who was also present alongside the Nordion siblings the night she crashed into the fence is now there, crouching and examining everything. Sensing another person’s presence he takes himself off the car he has been looking at, sparing a smile at Eldigan. “It needs towing, Sir,” he says then. “I’ve taken care of it.”

“When will the truck come?” Eldigan says, grimacing, and she wonders if the car looks so pathetically ugly or whether he is imagining that night again, with her riding it.

 _Perhaps both_ , her own thoughts nudge her.

“As soon as possible this morning, Sir. Why are you driving this one knowing well it easily malfunctioned?” the other man, whom she remembers being addressed as Alva, glances at her this time.

She understands that it’s a genuine question—of course people would want to know. Of course it’s only fair to ask considering she may need an explanation if she is going to reclaim for her insurance to cover the damage. What can she say? That she had no money nor time to give the car the necessary tweak and makeup it needed? That she might as well chop the irons off and straddle somewhere else to get herself a new car? That she might have to blow all her already-limited savings to repair for the Eldigan’s front gate?  “Because… because I thought it might still be able to hold up…”

Just how many layers of lies she need, even if only to stop them from asking her questions?

Eldigan shakes his head again—a gesture she catches. It’s so tempting to fiddle with her dress as she typically does when she feels nervous, but considering the dress isn’t even hers and it needs pins and belt to hold up, she opts out for something less healthy—biting her own lips.

… Or so she thought, because he pats Alva’s shoulder. “Give them my desk’s number, Alva. Tell them to give me a call once they are done assessing the damage.”

“Sir…” Alva mumbles in doubt, but Eldigan smiles.

“I’m taking the lady to the hospital.”

“Oh,” Alva quickly catches up. “Oh—right, right. Ah, dear gods—yes! I’m so glad your bones are intact,” he stretches a hand at her. “I’m Alva and I work for Boss Eldie here!  I do hope you feel better—even what happened yesterday overwhelmed me.”

“I’m Grahnye…” she takes the hand to shake it. “And I’m—sorry. I…”

Eldigan touches her shoulder, however. “Let us be on our way.”

“Oh—right,” she murmurs again.

“I’ll see you at the office?” Eldigan nods at Alva, who nods back as he leaves with her in tow. It still feels even more awkward for her now that Eldigan takes her to ride in his SUV again. But Eldigan simply hums even after they are inside, turning on the radio for his daily dose of morning news—more so when it pertains business. She is silent like he is, noticing money exchange values as well as stocks growth while he simply maintains a straight face onto the street.

“… Oh, dollar thrives against pounds,” she mumbles out of reflex. “How unexpected.”

“Ah. Really?” he says as the car makes a turn.

“You are a businessman, though, I suppose…” she blurts it out. “I mean—I’m not calling you dumb.”

“It’s fine if you are,” the blonde chuckles a little. “Admittedly, I haven’t paid attention again.”

“Again?” she frowns. “Oh, I understand. You must be very busy—“

“… With family matters, however,” he cuts in. “And that really left me with… say, unattended things.”

“Is it bad?” she asks innocently. Eldigan lets out a surprised sound that he quickly hits the brake. _It is,_ she ponders, because for a moment he appears like a completely different person—those eyes lose the life inside, turning into some soulless orbs with a distraught master that he lost a control for a second. Eldigan has turned into a tempest for a few seconds that she is tempted to know what stirs up the wind.

“… Ah. Pardon,” the blonde sighs, pulling the hand brake when they stop before a red light. He taps on the steering wheel, contemplating on the red light before him. He looks so defeated that for a moment she wonders if that is indeed the case with him—he already looked pretty forlorn when she first met him, and considering he appeared to be fit, she doubts that the problem with his appetite is merely caused by his intestine problem. It’s like a power outage with interval so far—he’ll make those faint, faint smiles every now and then, and returning to the whatever bleakness that is slowly consuming him.

… Thus it is hard to overlook that part. She noticed how his eyes lighted up a little when they had food together, like he truly appreciated being able to eat again. “No, it’s alright,” she murmurs. God knows where she got the courage because her hand gently travels to touch him on the shoulder. It feels so natural that her fingertips run over his unoccupied arm, brushing it up and down in such comforting gesture that she almost did not notice what she did if he isn’t tilting his head at her.

“… Grahnye.”

“Uh. Ummm. Pardon,” with the same sigh he did prior she mumbles the apology, quickly retracting her hand off him. “Ummm. Y-you know, Eldigan, these days a dollar worth more than British pound. I-if I’m not mistaken, this is the lowest point for the pound—the latest it was this low was around 1985 a-and apparently Scottish pound bears higher value compared to the British one. Uh—anyway—“

“Ah. Is that so?”

“Y-yes? I think? Oh, you can get a recap if you follow the market. Sure it’s like time sleeps because the brokers probably don’t even sleep but morning and night sometimes bring different results,” she says. “A stock value can rise up in the morning and suddenly it crashes after dinner, shocking everyone else.”

“… Hmmm.”

“E-eh, this isn’t to give you anxiety, by the way. You probably have been there too, on the floor watching graphs dance on the monitor,” she quickly adds because he hums like that. Is he testing her? Is he secretly disapproving and only wanting her to keep talking because that way she digs her grave deeper?

“Ours were pretty stable last year, though,” Eldigan comments. “Now I’m not sure because I need to open tender again and relaunch my stocks to the market. It’s like starting a new page.”

“Oh. How so?” she blurts again. “I mean—not to peep on you, of course. I’m not a sleeper agent, you know,” she chuckles awkwardly. “Like someone sent to your company to analyze you.”

“… You do have… _interesting_ ideas, Miss de Brún,” the corner of his mouth twitches a little bit. “I don’t think whoever sent you to spy on me would rather set you up in a car crash scenario.”

“R-right…” she scratches her head, taking out her phone to check it when it buzzes. There’s some soft frown on her face upon reading what she just got. Her mother had asked why she could not be contacted for a night since the last phone call they had apparently worried her. _You know we can always talk,_ the text says; to which she sincerely doubts. She does not doubt her mother’s sincerity in wanting to help her—it’s just her reaction that makes her nervous. Adulthood is weird—one would think they are old enough for the cruel, merciless world, but some issues simply stay and another day sees one trying to save themselves from a puddle of anxiety, receiving a hand from a mother who actually still uses the same glasses as if the child did not grow past seven.

 _I’m staying at a colleague’s,_ thus her simple reply. Now she doubts whether she ever grew up past seven. Her mother reply comes faster than she expected, however— _You know you need to be careful with things like that; have you been sleeping around? I taught you better than that, daughter—_

… Such a blunt question. And she would have laughed if only it was true. Sleeping around? She does not even date. She just failed driving her own car, which in turn failed her. She just emerged out of a semi-stranger’s house in borrowed clothing, bracing herself for the possibility of draining her card crisp to replace the damage she caused. And—ah, yes, for a moment the car drive with Eldigan has been rather pleasant that she forgot she just got fired, especially now that she and Eldigan will sit face-to-face to talk about his files like a professional consultant he hired.

… Would Eldigan’s opinion of her change drastically if he found out that she got fired? ….

“Quan again?” Eldigan asks mindlessly.

“N-no, it’s my mother…” she responds, feeling embarrassed somewhat. Truly—

“Oh. It’s nice to have a close-knit family...”

She blinks. Was he being sarcastic? But that face does not seem to be lying. “S-she worries me a lot, it seems,” finally se settles on an answer, praying to God Eldigan is not at all lying.

“Only child and or daughter?” Eldigan chuckles again. “I’d say it’s natural. At least from the perspective of the oldest child and son in the family considering I have a sister.”

“You love Lachesis!” she comments. His chuckles ease her self-consciousness a little bit. “I mean—you’re an older brother. Not at all surprising.”

“Really?” he smiles faintly then. “She thinks I’m a worrywart, though. To which I’d say, oops.”

He looks so charming when he makes that small smile again—more so the way he said _Oops_ in the end—it’s subtle still, yes; but the playfulness is definitely there. It’s almost like he just sticks a tongue at her in the most elegant way possible, and she loses it. Her giggles fly out before she can even contain them, and for the better or worse, somehow she does want to. Now that Eldigan is being like that she suspects that there is indeed subtle mischievousness in the blond-haired business empire heir and it is… endearing to see. Especially since those eyes light up again like life just returned…

She wonders if Eldigan takes a look at her as she laughs before hitting the gas again, but the hospital has come clearly within their vision, more so when he makes a turn to get into the parking area. Eldigan finally stops the car after getting a convenient lane to park his powerful SUV, and for a moment she is overcome with doubts—this is a _good_ hospital; a private one too. Will they accept her card here? She doesn’t even have a membership. How long will it take to process everything? Can’t they just recommend her some things so she can take the treatment somewhere… affordable?

She flashes a doubtful smile when Eldigan stops walking, waiting on her. As she catches up with him, however, he turns around. “Is the dress troubling?”

“Oh, it is not! I mean—I mean, the dress is just good, but I suppose not wearing your own clothes make you awkward,” she responds.

It feels a bit unfair and cheeky for her to nod, however. Really—what even is the proper way to tell him that basically she has no money for a first-class service? Dismounting with him from the same car does not mean that their status is comparable! But Eldigan straddles inside, regardless, like he truly knows the place. Perhaps he does. Perhaps this is where his family usually goes to when they get sick. Perhaps. She needs to say something, anyway. If she made it clear to Quan centuries ago that she would still only take what she could pay herself at a group outing, it would be no different compared to Eldigan here.

The automatic doors spread themselves between them. Somehow the air-conditioned room feels too cold for her—that, or she is starting to sweat coldly because the anxiety is getting realer as they walk in. Again, flashing a polite smile which hides _NOOOO_ underneath she doubtfully tails Eldigan to the reception desk, and …

“I’m Eldigan Nordion,” the blonde says calmly, handing a card and the envelope he takes with him from the car. “I scheduled an appointment with the internist—Doctor Edain Jungby, I believe.”

The receptionist smiles knowingly, and she cannot _not_ recognize it—the typical smile reserved for VIPs like Eldigan here. “Ah. Right. You can see Doctor Jungby immediately, Sir,” she replies, printing something and stamps it in a heartbeat. “And now…”

“Can you squeeze her after me?” Eldigan quickly asks before she manages to say anything. When the receptionist frowns, Eldigan suavely counters, anyway, treating the receptionist to a really kind smile which… successfully charms her enough that for a moment she can only look at him with her mouth open. “The lady got into a car crash last night,” Eldigan says again while Grahnye joins the receptionist gaping at him. First of all—he _really_ puts her under his doctor now without a chance to refuse; how does she even get to tell him that she wants to see the available options, considering…

“Car crash?” the receptionist looks at her.

“Y-yes. Uh,” reflexively she rolls up her sleeves, showing the ugly bruise marks.

“Oh my,” the receptionist sighs. “Sure, of course, yes. Doctor Jungby or not, you _do_ need a check-up.”

“Thank you very much,” Eldigan nods courteously, but Grahnye did not miss the glint in his eyes as he slings an arm around her, taking her away from the reception desk. When she thought she nearly melts because he holds her like that—considering… considering he is courteous but also making it looking so intimate like she is the crystal ware he dreads to break for mishandling her glass bones by accident.

“… Such courage,” she teases back, not wanting to admit that the action actually nearly made her gasp. But Eldigan has that mischievous glint again although he keeps his face straight—impossible that he did not hear her, anyway, and she starts wondering if it would be too quick to judge that he indeed has that subtle-teaser air around him regardless.

“The day wears down and the battlefield is fierce,” he responds however.

“You can’t be a cat,” she blurts out again.

“Indeed I am not—I’m allergic to sea food,” the blonde again replies in the same solemn manner.

“Good to know,” she sighs. “Do you eat meat?”

“Yes. I’m not a vegetarian, my utmost apologies, Grahnye.” If Eldigan thinks he has successfully turned everything into a subtle ballroom party as if they exchange banters under the fan and flower languages of the age past, she will…

… Agree. Somehow she is close to blushing the more Eldigan projects that subtlety, because—because just because he is subtle, does not make him less… attractive. Somehow—

“I—uh, heard brave old kings of the past were called lion-hearted. Could it be possible that you are a lion, then?” she clears her throat, following Eldigan’s… _merry_ steps as if he just takes her to tango.

“Hmmm. So supposedly I’m to take it, because you picture me as brave?”

“M-me? Aren’t you?! I mean—I mean you got me registered under _your_ doctor. And…” she bites her lips. _And I cannot pay for that one,_ she desperately wants to say, and yet—

“Mr. Nordion?” a soft voice calls from behind a practice room. A nurse opens the previously-sealed door to greet them with papers in hand. When Eldigan quietly hands his envelope to her, suddenly Grahnye gets reminded of Eldigan’s vehement rejection of being addressed as such, at his dinner table.

“… It’s Eldigan,” she interjects. “Please call him Eldigan.”

Eldigan stops walking to smile at her with a nod.

She blankly watches the door before her again—it’s now closed, and again her mind races. It’s so tempting to flee from there. She won’t be able to pay Doctor Jungby, anyway, and whatever it is, perhaps she can wait somewhere—perhaps at the coffee shop until he’s done with his check-up and everything. But it will be ridiculous since his file is still with her, anyway; what would she come here all the way for if in the end she is just going to leave again? Better conclude everything and disappear.

 _It’s not like what you thought,_ she sends a simple text for Quan as she waits on Eldigan inside. Bless Quan for being a slow texter this time because right here and now is not the place she imagines to be having an argument with—especially when the question concerns her private life. After all, the reason why Eldigan was so calm handling everything _got to be_ because he’s got a significant other—or so she believes; otherwise, how, if that is not the case? Not to mention with his social status and wealth.

She taps her fingers on the bench she sits on while waiting on Eldigan. When the door opens revealing the blonde by the threshold, smiling at the nurse—and nearly gasped for almost bumping into the top border, her doubt returns greater than prior even though Eldigan smiles at her too as he returns.

“Did I make you wait?”

“You did not. I mean—I mean, you were under examination,” she responds. “… Can I ask something?”

“Sure. Yes?”

Eldigan still maintains that calm smiling face that she swallows back the matter of money. “How… are you?” she finally says. “I hope your condition improved.”

“Indeed it is, the doctor told me,” the blonde hums.

“Really? Oooh, thank God!!” she clasps her hands together, smiling back. That might be too loud for a hospital ward, so she clams her lips shut, feeling embarrassed all of a sudden. “I mean, I’m so glad.”

Eldigan chuckles, however. “Apparently it was because I managed to eat better,” he responds. “I suppose this means I have to thank you.”

His hand gently lands on her upper shoulder and he appeared so kind when he said it. She was about to say something back, but the nurse calls for her that she shoots Eldigan an awkward smile before dragging her steps inside the practice room, meeting a serene woman with beautiful flowing long blond hair in a lab coat and stethoscope waiting on her. “So, why are we here today?”

 _Because he made me and I’m not sure how to pay,_ she thinks, yet simply relays her situation to the doctor. “I suppose I need to see if I have internal bleeding or some sort, and…” the examination goes on. Doctor Jungby sends her out after giving a note for X-ray and everything although she is convinced that all is left would be just the external wounds and cuts which will take time healing. With her history, though, the doctor still advises her to be mindful especially when it comes to draining, exhausting activities and gives her body more time to recuperate and rest. Grahnye clutches the paper needed for the radiology, including a receipt for the painkiller and anti-inflammation Doctor Jungby prescribed.

“Can I return the courtesy?” the lion does speak like an old lord and now that he does it again, somehow it’s calming—the sense of normalcy feels nice considering she nearly wished to drown herself to death when taking off the dress off her head which makes her feel vulnerable like a child, considering she refused the nurse’s help for not wanting the woman question this makeshift emergency spare clothing.

“I’m good,” she smiles at him. “But to make sure, she wants me to take the X-ray.”

“Ah. Very well then, let’s get that immediately,” Eldigan walks alongside her.

“… Eldigan…” she has to tell him this one. She has to. At least—at least she needs clarity, the terms and condition being laid before her so she won’t have to deal with another surprise.

“Yes?”

How come he isn’t aware at all? Yet he is not indeed, considering he simply slows down to match her steps! “… I uh—is this your go-to hospital?”

“Yes. My father went here for all his life,” he replies with a somber tone he seemed to regret for not concealing until it was too late. “I mean. I mean—this is a good one. He was comfortable until the end.”

“… The end?” she looks at him warily.

“… Yes. He died on a Saturday. Around last week.”

She blinks.

Eldigan clears his throat that she awkwardly averts her eyes. “Was it the question, by the way?”

“No,” she quickly replies. The tempest returns and he looks so different and she regrets spoiling the blissful morning considering his condition improved and she is alright and and and—“And it was more like, uh, ATM machine? Around here?”

Eldigan throws his head back in disbelief as he casts a look at her. “Excuse me?”

“ATM machine?” out of reflex she waves her hand at him. “To draw money and check my card?”

“Sure. I mean—yes, of course I know what it is for. But like, _what_ for?” the blonde asks, surprising her. “If it’s just for some morning coffee and you don’t have cash with you, I can cover that as well.”

“Oh, cover. Why, do you wear a cape—h-hold on!”

“Is hold.”

“Noooo. Eldigan—”

“I am?”

“Eldigan!!”

“My name?”

“Eldigan, Eldigan, Eld—aaaah!” she nearly shrieks near him. “W-what do you mean, as well?”

“… An adverb which indicates the same effect?” Eldigan responds… innocently.

“No. Nooo! Y-you are paying?!” she clutches on his coat.

“The coffee? Sure, what do you want to get? I’m still off the espresso and black coffee mark, sadly. But a mild latte will be fine—“ he stops talking because she clutches on the coat—tighter. “… Yes?”

“I mean.”

“You can just talk to me without doing that, Grahnye, I’m not using you as an arm rest.”

“… How gallant,” she grumbles. “Anyway!”

“Yes?”

Oh, gods—must he looks so kind and nice each time he replies? “I’d like to verify something.”

“… Yes?”

 _He tenderizes his tone,_ she notes. _What does he think he is doing—cooking a steak with his voice?!_ “This one, I mean—mine—g-goes under your account,” she says, voice trembling.

“Account?” the blonde frowns. “I don’t understand. Our family is not in debt to this hospital, Grahnye.”

“S-sure! I know you are rich, but…” she fidgets with the dress again, quickly stopping it simply because she realizes it’s not even hers. “Eldigan, chances are I cannot pay for this one,” she says. It feels so great to finally find the courage to say what she has to, but at the same time her heart feels sinking at an instant. “So let’s just talk about the files. The doctor said I’m mostly okay, so there’s no need for this.”

“The X-ray?”

She slowly shakes her head.

“… The medicines?” Eldigan looks at her again.

“I’ll get it at some pharmacy. Replacing the—Eldigan?”

He stops her right there. “… No. Pardon my language—nonsense. I watched my father died. I—“ he exhales heavily. “Please, let me. We’ve come this far. How can I kick you back into the street like that?”

“I know you will not, though,” she mutters. “Your file is with me still.”

“That’s true, but…” the blonde thinks again, clasping his chin. “Ah. Do you perhaps hate what I’m doing?”

“N-not necessarily, no,” she murmurs in a quieter tone. “I can’t believe it.”

“Why?” calmly he asks. She notices that he starts walking again—a gesture which makes her follow him out of reflex. And by the time she realizes everything, of course Eldigan is taking them to where the radiology section is—another purposeful subtlety which just… fuels her curiosity about him in a way.

“Because why would you?” she questions. “You let me stay in your house. You even fed me, and now.”

“I thought even you yourself understands that not everyone gets in a car crash often,” he simply shrugs, but again—there’s that kind of light in his eyes, as if he simply picks up a training sword, inviting her to duel him on a merry bright day. Somehow. “If you ask me, there’s something I find too much, Grahnye.”

“W-which is?” well, well, if Eldigan does fencing, it will be terrible too—perhaps she can’t win.

“Sending you out half-dead?” he quirks an eyebrow. “In torn dress, roaming the street alone at night?”

“O-oh. That. No need to worry, people may think I’m a ghost, so nothing will happen to me,” she replies sincerely, making Eldigan to look at her. Right, curse herself first and Eldigan _thousandth_ , her brain is at it again—making quips to overcome her own nervousness because… really, a rich guy who is _not_ selfish and actually wants to help? What in the world of lionization? Right when she is about to suggest to him that he might as well call the FBI on her considering there is no chance for her to be human as displayed by this… _unique_ coherency, Eldigan simply shakes his head…

… And wears that small smile again. “Stop teasing. Impossible; ghosts aren't supposed to be pleasant.”

She really wants to _yell_ at him that he must be the one teasing here, however. “Teasing? Haha, I don’t do striptease. I can’t even do sports.”

 _Again?_ –She glances warily at Eldigan.

“… You are funny.”

… Eldigan faintly chuckles…

“Y-you must mean I’m an idiot.”

“What? No,” gently, he counters. “It’s alright, Grahnye, I never tried that myself.”

“Oh. H-haha, glad we are alike…”

She really, really is close to slap herself on the forehead. What is happening? Seems she desperately needs the X-ray. And perhaps not just that, the MRI too! What other rays does she need? There has to be something wrong with her. Grahnye de Brún, twenty-five, suddenly lost her verbal coherency after getting into a car crash—

… Or perhaps not considering moments after the crash she managed to castrate Lachesis Nordion’s tongue on the spot by presenting herself as a dignified, graceful, and righteously-angry person.

“Not really. I never braided my hair and its color is blond,” Eldigan says calmly… again.

“Oh. Right, right—you’ve got a point. I—mean.”

“And based on that, Grahnye, wouldn’t you allow me this much?” he extends a hand to usher her into the X-ray room. “And after this we’ll talk about my file. In my office.”

“… Seriously?” she looks at him.

“Seriously!” Eldigan nods. “Or are you preoccupied for the day?”

 _No, Sir, actually, I’m a jobless, hopeless, frail-ass spinster._ “Uh. If I am?” testing, testing…

“Then I’ll make myself available,” again, the blonde utters his response just as calmly. “Are you, then?”

She slowly shakes her head.

“Ah, great. I’ll see you again in a couple of minutes?” Eldigan opens the radiology room for her.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously!”

“A-and after this, me, you, your office?” she blurts. This is supposed to be a meeting. A formal meeting. But why is it that the way he suggested it makes everything sound so… light and enjoyable?

“Yes. I promised Quan to eat lunch with him today too. In the meantime, you can fill me in with your findings and we’ll get through my documents with him. I’d like to know what he finds as well, especially now that it concerns my file,” Eldigan nods. “Do we have a deal?”

 _R-right. Business. Business— **serious** business. Seriously. _“Sure,” she nods. “After all, I’m professional.” … _Professionally fired._

“Ah, I am glad then. Thank you,” Eldigan nods with a smile. “It’s also my relief that you end up alright.”

“S-same here,” she stutters as she steps into the room. “I’m serious!”

“So am I,” Eldigan waves as she begins to walk away. “Seriously.”


End file.
